--^-;:^'A^i.^?-?^ 




THE >^ 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

FELICIA HEMANS, 

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 

WITH A MEMOIR BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 

A NEW EDITION, 

FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION", 



WITH ALL THE INTRODUCTORY NOTES. 



€lcguntlg |Uustrateb from Original Resigns. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
J. B. LIPPIIN^OOTT & COMPANY. 



.hi 



387270 



CONTENTS 



Page 
HEMOiB . .X ^7 

JUVENILE POEMS. 

Dn ray Mother's Birthdaj Written at the age of eight. 49 

A Prayer. Written at the age of nine 49 

Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven 49 

Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven 50 

To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the 

age of eleven 50 

Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve. . . . 50 

Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 51 

Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen 51 

Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 51 

England and Spain ; or, Valor and Patriotism. Written 

at the age of fourteen 5Q 

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Silver Locks. Addressed to an aged Friend 58 

To my Mother 59 

To my Younger Brother, on his return from Spain, after 
the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore, and the 

Battle of Corunna 60 

To my Eldest Brother, with the British Army in Portugal 60 

Lines written in the Memoirs'of Elizabeth Smith 61 

The Ruin and its Flowers 61 

Christmas Carol 62 

The Domestic Affections 63 

To Mr. Edwards, the Harper of Conway 68 

Epitaph on Mr. W , a celebrated Mineralogist 68 

Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogist. . . 69 
Prologue to the Poor Oentleman^ as intended to be per- 
formed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment at 
Clonmel 69 

THE RESTORATION OP THE WORK 3 OF ART TO 

ITALY 71 

MODERN GREECE 77 

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, 

AND OTHER POETS. 

«wnet70 94 



/ 



Sonnet282. From Psalnn 137 94 

Part of Eclogue 15 94 

Sonnet 271 95 

Sonnet 186 95 

Sonnet 108 95 

Sonnet 23. To a Lady who died at Sea 95 

Sonnet 19 96 

" Que estranho caso de amor ! " 96 

Sonnet 58 96 

Sonnet 178 96 

Sonnet 80 96 

Sonnet 239. From Psalm 137 97 

Sonnet 128 97 

" Polomeu apartamento " 97 

Sonnet 205 97 

Sonnet 133 , 98 

Sonnet 181 96 

Sonnet 278 98 

" Mi nueve y dulce querella " 98 

Metastasio 98 

— " Al furor d' awersa Sorte " 98 

— " duella onda che ruina " 98 

— ' Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie " 99 

— <' Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine ".. 99 

— " Parlagli d' un periglio " 99 

— " Sprezza il furor del vento " 99 

— " Sol pud dir che sia contento " 99 

— " Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle ! " 99 

ViscENzo DA FiLicAJA. — " lutlia ! Italia! O tu cui 

di6 la sorte" 100 

Pastorini. — " fieuova mia ! se con asciutto ciglio"... 100 

Lope de Vega. — " Estese el cortesano" 100 

Francisco Manuel. — On ascending a hill leading to 100 

a Convent 100 

Della Casa. — Venice IOC 

Il Marchese Cornelio Bentivoglio. — " L' anima 

bella, che dal vero Eliso " 101 

Que vedo — Rome buried in her own Ruins 10 

El conde Joan de Tarsis. — " Tu, que la dulce vida 

en tiernas anos " 101 

Torquato Tasso. — " Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea 

rosa " 101 

Bernardo Tasso. — " Quest' ombra che giammai non 

vide il sole " 102 



\ Petrarch. — " Chi vuol vederquantunque pu6natura" lOQ 
— " Se lamentar augelli, O verdi fronde".. 109 

ri9) 



20 



CONTENTS. 



Vkmi Spagwitoli di Pistro Bembo — "O Muerte! 

que Slides ser " 102 

PRAWCE8CO LoRENziNi. — " O Zefirctto, che movendo 

vai " 102 

Gesner. — Morning Song 102 

German Song. — " Madchen, lernet Amor kennen "... 103 
ChjiULieu. — " Grotte, d' ou sort ce clair ruisseau '* . . . 103 
(Jabcilajio de Vega. — " Coyed de vuestra alegre pri- 

mf»vt*a •' 103 

LsBirrzs ♦ m Medici. — Violets 103 

PiUDEJioniE. — On the Hebeof Canova 104 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea Shore 104 

Dirge of a Child 105 

Invocation 105 

To the Memory of General Sir E— D P— K— M 106 

To the Memory of Sir H— Y E— LL— S, who fell in the 

Battle of Waterloo 106 

Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of the 

Spanish Patriot Mina 107 

The Aged Indian 107 

Evening amongst the Alps 108 

Dirge of the Highland Chief in " Waverley " 108 

The Crusaders' War Song 108 

The Death of Clanronald 109 

To the Eye 109 

The Hero's Death 110 

Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte 110 

Wallace's invocation to brucb 114 

Advertisement by the Author 114 

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

The Abencerrage 118 

The Widow of Crescentius 137 

The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra 145 

Alaric in Italy 147 

The Wife of Asdrubal 149 

Heiiodorus in the Temple 150 

Night Scene in Genoa. From Sismondi's " Republiques 

Italiennes " 151 

The Troubadour and Richard CoBur de Lion 153 

The Death of Conradin 155 

Critical Annotations 157 

THE SCEPTIC 158 

Critical Annotations 165 

grPERSTITION AND REVELATION 167 

rrAlTA? JTERATURE. 

rhe Basr<giiiar.i of Monii 171 

The Alcestis of Alfieri 174 

11 Conte di Carmagnoia. A Tragedy. By Alessandro 

Manzoni 178 

Jaiua Gracchus. A Tragedy. By Monti 187 

PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. 

Vincenzo da Filicaja 191 

'Jarlo Maria Maggi 191 

Mi-ssandro Marchetti 192 



Alessandro Pegolotd .... 

Francesco Maria de Conti. — The Shore ot Africa. 



P*ffi 

. i9g 



Jeu-d'Esprit on the word "Barb" 199 

The Fever Dream 183 



DARTMOOR . 



WELSH MELODIES. 

The Harp of Wales. Introductory Stanzas. 

Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans 

The Green Isles of Ocean 

The Sea Song of Gafran 

The Ilirlas Horn 

The Hall of Cynddylan 

The Lament of Llywarch Hen , 

Grufydd's Feast 

The Cambrian in America 

Taliesin's Prophecy 

Owen Glyndwr's War Song 

Prince Madoc's Farewell 

Caswallon's Triumph 

Howel's Song 

The Mountain Fires 

Eryri Wen 

Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I. 

The Dying Bard's Prophecy 

The Fair Isle. For the Melody called the "Welsh 

Ground " 

The Rock of Cader Idris 



106 



THE VESPERS OP PALERMO. 
Critical Annotations 



201 
201 
202 
202 
203 
203 
203 
204 
204 
205 
205 
205 
206 
206 

207 
207 



243 



Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third 244 

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

The Maremma 248 

A Tale of the Secret Tribunal 251 

The Caravan in the Deserts 267 

Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage 269 

A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment 270 

Belshazzar's Feast 276 

The Last Constantine 2T8 

Critical Annotations 292 

The League of the Alps ; or, the Meeting on the Field 

ofGrutli.. , 293 



SONGS OF THE CID. 

I'ne Old's Departure into Exile . 29* 

The Cid's Death Bed 297 

The Cid's Funeral Procession 298 

The Cid's Rising 299 

GREEK SONGS. 

The Storm of Delphi 300 

The Bowl of Liberty 301 

The Voice of Scio 301 

The Spartans' March 309 

Tlie Urn and Sword 309 

The Myrtle Bough 303 



CONTENTS 



21 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Page 

On a FJower from the Field of Grutli 303 

On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 303 

The Chieftain's Son 304 

A Fragment 304 

England's Dead 304 

Hie Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eisteddvod, 
or Meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London, May 

22, 1822 305 

The Voice of Spring 306 

Elysium 308 

The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue. 309 

The Tombs of Plataea 310 

The View from Castri 310 

The Festal Hour 311 

Song of the Battle of Morgarten 312 

Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portrgal, and 
his Army, in Africa. Translated from the Span- 
ish of Herrera 314 

BEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL 315 

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 322 

Advertisement by the Author 322 

Critical Annotations 354 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

f^ong. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote 355 

Alp Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 356 

The Cross of the South 356 

The Sleeper of IMarathon 357 

To Miss F. A. L., on her Birthday 357 

Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same. . . 357 

To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 357 

From the Spanish of Garciiaso de la Vega 358 

From the Italian of Sannazaro 358 

Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. 
Translated from the Fifth Book of the Lusiad of 

Camoens 358 

\ Dirge 360 

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

To Venus 360 

To his Attendant 360 

To Delius 360 

To the Fountain of Bandusia. 361 

To Faunas 361 

DE CHATILLON; or, the CRUSADERS 361 

Critical Annotations 377 

tHE FOREST SANCTUARY 378 

Critical Annotations 401 

LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 

Moorish Bridal Song 402 

The Bird's Release 402 

The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend 403 

Valkynur Song , 405 

/"he CaTern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition .. . 406 
iwiss Song, on the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle. . 406 

The Messenger Bird 407 

Vnswer to " The Messenger Bird," by an American 

Quakei Lady. . 407 



The Stranger in Louisiana 408 

Tlie Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition 408 

The bended Bow 40f 

He never smiled again 410 

CoRur de Lion at the Bier of his Father 41C 

The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree 419 

Tlie Wild Huntsman 412 

Brandenburg Harvest Song. From the Gernia.i of La 

Motte Fouqiie 413 

The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 4IJ 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile 414 

Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue 414 

Greek Parting Song 415 

The Suliote Mother 417 

The Farewell to the Dead 418 

MISCELLANEOUS K^EMS. 

I go, sweet Friends 418 

Angel Visits 419 

Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy Leaves gath- 
ered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the 

Rhine 41s 

To one of the Author's Children on his Birthday 420 

On a similar Occasion 420 

Christ stilling the Tempest 420 

Epitaph over the Grave of two Brothers 49C 

Monumental Inscription 421 

The Sound of the Sea 42' 

The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantray's Statue 

of Lady Louisa Russell 425 

A Dirge 422 

Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine 422 

English Soldier's Song of Memory. To the Air of " Am 

Rhein, Am Rhein ! » 423 

Haunted Ground 423 

The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the 

Memoirs of John Hunter 424 

Stjnzas to the Memory of * * * 425 

The Vaudois Valleys 425 

Song of the Spanish Wanderer „ 426 

The Contadina. Written for a Picture 426 

Troubadour Song 426 

The Treasures of the Deep 426 

Bring Flowers 427 

The Crusader's Return 42fe 

Thekla's Song ; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From the 

German of Schiller 429 

The Revellers 429 

The Conqueror's Sleep , 430 

Our Lady's Well 430 

The Parting of Summer 431 

The Songs of our Fathers 43i 

The World in the Open Air 43S 

Kindred Hearts 433 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 433 

Casabianca i34 

The Dial of Flowers 434 

Our Daily Paths 435 

The Cross in the Wilderness 436 

Last Rites 437 

The Hebrew Mother 438 

The Wreck 43S 

The Trumpet 43<i 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School 44C 

The Hour of Death 44C 

The Lost Pleiad 44.' 



22 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Cliffs of Dover 441 

The Graves of Martyrs 442 

The Hour of Prayer 442 

Tlie Voice of Home to the Prodigal 442 

The Wakening 443 

The Breeze from Shore 443 

The Dying Improvisator 444 

Music of Yesterday 445 

The Forsaken Hearth 445 

The Dreamer 446 

The Wings of the Dove 446 

Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 447 

TJie Boon of Memory 447 

Dramatic S'-ene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon 448 

RECORDS OF WOMAN. 

Arabella Stuart 449 

The Bride of the Greek Isle 453 

The Bride's Farewell 453 

The Switzer's Wife 455 

Properzia Rossi. 457 

Gertrude ; or, Fidelity till Death 459 

Imelda 460 

Edith. A Tale of the Woods 461 

The Indian City • 464 

The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 466 

Indian Woman's Death Song 468 

Joan of Arc in Rheims 469 

Pauline 470 

Juana 471 

The American Forest Girl 472 

Costanza 473 

Madeline. A Domestic Tale 475 

The Queen of Prussia's Tomb 476 

The Memorial Pillar 477 

The Grave of a Poetess 478 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ^ 

The Homes of England 479 

The Sicilian Captive 479 

Ivan the Czar 481 

Carolan's Prophecy 482 

The Lady of the Castle. From the " Portrait Gallery," 

an unfinished Poem 483 

The Mourner for the Barmecides 484 

The Spanish Chapel 485 

The Kaiser's Feast 486 

Tasso and his Sister 487 

Ulla; or. The Adjuration 488 

To Wordsworth 489 

A Monarch's Death Bed 489 

To the Memory of Hebei 490 

The Adopted Child 490 

Invccation 491 

Kamer and his Sister 491 

The Death Day of Kbrner 492 

An Hour of Romance 493 

A Voyager's Dream of Land 493 

The Effigies 494 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England.. 495 

The Spirit's Mysteries 495 

The Departed 496 

The Palm Tree 497 

The Child's Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument of 

Chantrey's 497 



The Sunbeam 498 

Breathings of Spring 498 

The Illuminated City 499 

The Spells of Home 499 

Roman Girl's Song 500 

The Distant Ship 500 

The Birds of Passage 501 

The Graves of a Household 501 

Mozart's Requiem 509 

The Image in Lava 503 

Christmas Carol 503 

A Father reading the Bible 503 

The Meeting of the Brothers 504 

The Last Wish 504 

Fairy Favors 505 

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

A Spirit's Return 506 

The Lady of Provence 50» 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro 511 

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin 519 

To a Departed Spirit 513 

The Chamois Hunter's Love 513 

The Indian with his Dead Child 514 

Song of Emigration 515 

The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother 515 

The Return 516 

The Vaudois' Wife 517 

The Guerilla Leader's Vow 518 

Thekla at her Lover's Grave 518 

The Sisters of Scio 519 

Bernardo del Carpio 519 

The Tomb of Madame Langbans 521 

The Exile's Dirge 521 

The Dreaming Child 523 

The Charmed Picture 629 

Parting Words 523 

The Message to the Dead 523 

The Two Homes 524 

The Soldier's Death Bed 524 

The Image in the Heart 525 

The liand of Dreams 526 

Woman on the Field of Battle 526 

The Deserted House 527 

The Stranger's Heart.. 528 

To a Remembered Picture 528 

Come Home 529 

The Fountain of Oblivion 529 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Bridal Day 530 

The Ancestral Song . 531 

The Magic Glass 539 

Corinne at the Capitol o 539 

The Ruin 533 

The Minster 534 

The Song of Night 534 

The Storm Painter in his Dungeon 535 

The Two Voices 536 

The Parting Ship 536 

The Last Tree of the Forest 537 

The Streams 538 

The Voice of the Wind 539 

The Vigil of Arms , 539 

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey. . . . 54< 



Page 

Nature's Farewell 541 

The Beings of the Mind 541 

The Lyre's Lament 542 

Tasso's Coronation 543 

The Better Land 543 

The Wounded Eagle 544 

Sadness and Mirth 544 

The Niglitingale's Death Song 545 

The Diver 545 

The Requiem of Genius 546 

rriumphant Music 547 

Second Sight 547 

TJie Sea Bird flying inland 548 

The Sleeper 548 

The Mirror in the Deserted Hall 548 

To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poet.. 549 

The Star of the Mine 549 

Washington's Statue. Sent from England to America. 549 

A Thought of Home at Sea. Written for Music 550 

To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law 550 

To an Orphan 550 

Hymn by the Sick Bed of a Mother 551 

Where is tlie Sea ? Song of the Greek Islander in Exile 551 

To my own Portrait 551 

No more 552 

Thought from an Italian Poet 552 

Passing away 552 

The Angler 553 

Death and the Warrior 553 

Song for an Air by Hummel 554 

To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, Son of the 
Duke of AthoU, who died in the Cause, and la- 
mented by the People, of Greece 554 

The Broken Chain 554 

The Shadow of a Flower 555 

Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull 555 

The Bell at Sea 556 

The Subterranean Stream 556 

The Silent Multitude 557 

The Antique Sepulchre 557 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 558 

The Memory of the Dead 558 

He walked with God 559 

The Rod of Aaron 559 

The Voice of God 559 

The Fountain of Marah 560 

The Penitent's Offering 560 

The Sculptured Children 560 

Woman and Fame 561 

A Thought of the Future 562 

The Voice of Music 562 

The Angel's Greeting 563 

A Farewell to Wales , 563 

Impromptu Lines, addressed to Miss F. A. L., on re- 
ceiving from her some Flowers when confined by 

Illness 563 

A Parting Song 564 

We return no more 564 

To a Wandering Female Singer 564 

Lights and Shades 565 

The Palmer 565 

The Child's First Grief 565 

To the New Bom 566 

The Death Song of Alcestis 566 

The Home of Love 567 

V»k(i and Flowers 568 



For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels 56S 

The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a Pic- 
ture of Eastlake's ., 570 

The Cliild's Return from the Woodlands 570 

The Faith of Love 571 

Tlie Sister's Dream ... 571 

A Farewell to Abbotsford 572 

O'Connor's Child 57^ 

The Prayer for Life 573 

The Welcome to Death 57S 

The Victor 574 

Lines written for the Album at Rosanna 571 

The Voice of the Waves. Written near the Scene of a 

recent Shipwreck 575 

The Haunted House 575 

The Shepherd Poet of the Alps 576 

To the Mountain Winds 578 

The Procession 57f 

Tlie Broken Lute 579 

The Burial in the Desert 580 

To a Picture of the Madonna 581 

A Thought of the Rose 583 

Dreams of Heaven 562 

The Wish 583 

Written after visiting a Tomb, near Woodstock, in the 

County of Kilkenny 583 

Epitaph 584 

Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco 584 

To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist 584 

O ye Hours 584 

The Freed Bird 585 

Marguerite of France {.85 

The Wanderer 5<^7 

The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland 587 

To Caroline 588 

The Flower of the Desert 588 

HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 

Introductory Verses 58J 

The Rainbow 589 

The Sun 589 

The Rivers 590 

The Stars v 590 

The Ocean 591 

The Thunder Storm 591 

The Birds 592 

The Skylark. Child's Morning Hymn 592 

The Nightingale. Child's Evening Hymn 593 

The Northern Spring 593 

Paraphrase of Psalm 148 503 

LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC 

NATIOPfAL LYRICS. 

The Themes of Song S9^ 

Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory 7\» 

the Air of " Am Rhein ! Am Rhein ! " 695 

A Song of Delos 595 

Ancient Greek Chant of Victory 596 

Naples. A Song of the Siren .*. 596 

The Fall of D' Assas. A Ballad of France 597 

The Burial of William the Conqueror 59? 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 



Near thee, still near i 
O, droop thou not. . . 



SOS 



Z4 



CONTENTS. 



80NG8 OP SPAIN. Page 

Ancient Battle Song 599 

TheZegri Maid 599 

The Rio Verde Song 600 

Peek by the Silvery Darro 600 

Spanish Evening Hymn *. 600 

Bird that art singing on Ebro's Side 600 

Moorish Gathering Song 601 

The Song of Mina's Soldiers 601 

Mother ! O, sing me to rest 601 

There are Sounds in the dark Roncesvalles 601 

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 

And I too in Arcadia 601 

The Wandering Wind 602 

Ye are not missed, fair Flowers 602 

The Willow Song 603 

Leave me not yet 603 

The Orange Bough 603 

The Stream set free , 603 

The Summer's Call 604 

O, Skylark, for thy Wing 604 

SONOS OP CAPTIVITY. 

Introduction 605 

The Brother's Dirge 605 

The Alpine Horn 605 

ye Voices 606 

1 dream of all Things free 606 

Far o'er the Sea. 606 

The Invocation 606 

The Song of Hope. 607 

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 

The Call to Battle 607 

Mignon's Song. Translated from Goethe 607 

The Sisters. A Ballad 608 

The Last Song of Sappho 609 

Dirge 609 

A Song of the Rose 610 

Night-blowing Flowers 611 

The Wanderer and the Night Flowers 611 

Echo Song 611 

The Muffled Drum 612 

The Swan and the Skylark 612 

The Curfew Song of England 613 

Genius singing to Love 614 

Music at a Death Bed 615 

Marshal Schwerin's Grave 615 

The Fallen Lime Tree 616 

The Bird at Sea 616 

The Dying Girl and Flowers 616 

The Ivy Song 617 

The Music of St. Patrick's 617 

Keei;e ; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son. . . 618 

Far away 618 

The Lyre and Flower 619 

Bister ! since I met thee last 619 

The Lonely Bird 619 

Dirge at Sea 619 

Pilgrim's Son| to the Evening Star 620 

•^he Meeting of the Ships 620 

Come away 620 

Fair Helen of Kirkconnel 621 

Husic from Shore 621 



P«Wf 

Look on me with thy cloudless Eyes 621 

If thou hast crushed a Flower. 621 

Brijrhtly hast tnou fled 69S 

The Bed of Heath 623 

Fairy Song 622 

What woke the buried Sound 623 

Sing to me, Gondolier 623 

Look on me thus no more 623 

O'er the Far Blue Mountains 023 

thou Breeze of Spring » .. 623 

Come to me, Dreams of Heaven 624 

Good Night 624 

Let her depart 624 

How can that Love so deep, so lone 625 

Water Lilies. A Fairy Song 625 

The Broken Flower 625 

1 would we had not met again 625 

Fairies' Recall 625 

The Rock beside the Sea 626 

O ye Voices gone 626 

By a Mountain Stream at Rest 626 

Is there some Spirit sighing 626 

The Name of England 627 

Old Norway. A Mountain War Song 627 

Come to me, gentle Sleep 627 

SCENES AND HYBINS OF LxfE. 

Preface R8 

The English Martyrs. A Scene of the Days of Queen 

Mary 628 

Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 632 

Cathedral Hymn 634 

Wood Walk and Hymn 636 

Prayer of the Lonely Student 638 

The Traveller's Evening Song 639 

Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forests. 639 

Easter Day in a Mountain Churchyard 641 

The Child reading the Bible 643 

A Poet's Dying Hymn 644 

The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott 645 

The Prayer in the Wilderness 646 

Prisoners' Evening Service. A Scene of the French 

Revolution 647 

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Perse- 
cution 649 

Prayer at Sea after Victory 650 

The Indian's Revenge. Scene in the Life of a Mora 

vian Missionary 650 

Evening Song of the Weary 653 

The Day of Flowers 653 

Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return, in 

the Olden Time 655 

The Painter's Last Work 556 

A Prayer of Afl^ection 657 

Mother's Litany by the Sick Bed of a Child . 651 

Night Hymn at Sea. The Words written fo» a Melody 

by Felton 658 



SONNETS 

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF ICRIPTrBB. 

Invocation 658 

Invocation continued 668 

The Song of Miriam 659 

Rulli 659 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
The Vigil of Rizpah 659 

The Reply of the Shunamite Worflan 659 

The Annunciation 659 

The Song of the Virgin 6G0 

TJie Penitent anointing Christ's Feet 660 

Mary at the Feet of Clirist 660 

The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus 660 

The Memoria. of Mary 660 

The Women of Jerusalem ai tlie Cross 661 

Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 661 

llary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection . . 661 

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 

The Sacred liarp 661 

To a Family Bible 662 

Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Picture 662 

Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers 662 

On a Remembered Picture of Christ — an Ecce Homo, 

by Leonardo da Vinci 662 

The Children whom Jesus blessed 662 

Mountain Sanctuaries 663 

The Lilies of the Field 663 

The Birds of the Air 663 

The Raising of the Widow's Son 663 

The Olive Tree 664 

The Darkness of the Crucifixion , 664 

Places of Worship 664 

Old Church \n an English Park 664 

A Church ir, North Wales 664 

Louise Schepler 665 

To the Same 665 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Tne Two Monuments 665 

The Cottage Gin 666 

The Battle Field 666 

A Penitent's Return 667 

A Thought of Paradise 667 

Let us depart 668 

On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross. Painted by 

Velasquez 669 

Communings with Thought 669 

The Water Lily 670 

The Song of Penitence. Unfinished .670 

Troubadour Song 671 

The English Boy 671 

To the Blue Anemone 672 

SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 

Icenes from " Tasso " 672 

S«wies frono " Iphigenia." A Fragment 678 

4 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 

Tag* 

A Vernal Thought 679 

To the Sky 679 

On Records of Immature Genius 679 

On WatcJiing the Flight of a Skylark 680 

A Thought of the Sea 680 

Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening... 680 

The River CI wyd , in North Wales 68C 

Orchard Blossoms 680 

To a Distant Scene 681 

A Remembrance of Grasmere 681 

Thoughts connected with Trees 681 

The Same 68' 

On reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood 6Mi 

A Thought at Sunset 682 

Images of Patriarchal Life. 682 

Attraction of the East 682 

To an Aged Friend 682 

A Happy Hour 682 

Foliage 683 

A Prayer 683 

Prayer continued , 683 

Memorial of a Conversation 683 

RECORDS OF THE AtmrMN OP 1834. 

The Return to Poetry 683 

To Silvio Pellico, on reading his " Prigione *' 684 

To the Same, released 684 

On a Scene in the Dargle 684 

On the Datura Arborea 685 

On reading Coleridge's Epitaph 685 

Design and Performance 686 

Hope of future Communion with Nature 685 

Dreams of the Dead 686 

The Poetry of the Psalms 686 

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION 68o 

The Huguenot's Farewell 688 

Antique Greek Lament 638 

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 

Intellectual Powers 689 

Sickness like Night 689 

On Retzsch's Design of the Angel of Death 690 

Remembrance of Nature 69G 

Flight of the Spirit 690 

Flowers 69i 

Recovery r 691 

Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs. Hem£:.£ a few 

Days before her Death 60! 



MEMOIR 



OP 



'FELICIA HE MANS 



BY 



JIES L. H. SIGOUENEY, 



MEMOIR 



It is fitting that this complete edition of the works of Mrs. Hemans, calculated by 
its tasteful exterior and reduced price to be acceptable and accessible to all, should 
commence with some delineation of her life, that she may be loved as a friend, while 
she is admired as a poet. 

Felicia Dorothea Browne was of mingled Erse and Tuscan blood ; her father 
being a native of Ireland, and her mother of Italian and German ancestry. She 
was the fifth in succession of a family of seven, and born in Liverpool, (England,) 
September 25, 1793. Beauty and precocity were her gifts from nature. At the 
age of six, Shakspeare became her favorite author ; and the child-genius, having dis- 
covered a congenial haunt among the spreading branches of an apple tree, delighted 
to climb to her airy and solitary studio with some one of the volumes of the Bard 
of Avon. There, like a bird, nestling among the green leaves, or inhaling the vernal 
fragrance of unfolding petals, she fed on the richer germs of fancy and of song. Some 
of her earliest and even latest effusions refer affectionately to this unique and 
sequestered arbor, — 

" 'Mid faint-streaked blossoms white, 
And robin's nest, and the bee's dreamy chime." 

A removal of the family to Wales, before her seventh birthday, gave her mind 
the prompting influences of romantic and sublime scenery. Imbosomed in a range 
of mountains, and within sound of the " wide-rolling, melancholy main," that tinges 
»c much of the imagery of her poems, rose the spacious old mansion, where for the 
next nine years she found a happy home. There, amid fond intercourse with brothers 
and sisters, the treasures of an extensive library, and the nurturing care of a mother 
well qualified to conduct the education of genius, passed her unclouded childhood. 

(29) 



80 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

At the age of eleven, she was taken by her parents to spend the winter in London, 
and freely indulged in visits to works of art and other places of interest. Thoso 
who witnessed her first introduction to a gallery of sculpture were struck by hei 
impulsive " Hush ! hush ! " as, with her finger pressed on her lip, she seemed herself 
the personification of Beauty in silence. Amid the extensive collections of paintings 
in which the baronial establishments of England abound, her correct appreciation of 
their merits, and the variety of her classical and mythological knowledge, surprised 
all who saw that she was yet but a child. Still, surrounded by the novelties and 
attractions of the great metropolis, her heart turned to her rural home, and every 
letter to the dear fraternal group was tinged by the desire to enjoy with them the 
household sport and the mountain ramble. A similar sojourn in London, the follow- 
ing winter, though it familiarized her with the varied imagery and moving figures on 
the " world's wind-shaken tapestry," had no effect in diminishing the love of nature, 
which was an integral element of her being. 

Her intellectual training, within the quiet sanctuary of home and under maternal 
supervision, progressed prosperously. The study of languages aided her development 
of mind and power of expression. With French and Italian she became early 
familiar, to which she afterwards added Spanish and Portuguese. She also acquired 
the rudiments of German, and continued in future years to deepen her knowledge of 
that noble language, which, it was remarked by critical observers, gave to her own 
productions an added tone of sublimity. In her admiration of it, she partook some- 
what of the enthusiasm of the learned and early-summoned Elizabeth Smith, who used 
to say that only a " few of the very best people were worthy to understand German." 

Felicia was assisted in her acquisition of knowledge by what often appertains to 
genius — a wonderful memory. One of her brothers, who had been incredulous in 
some degree with regard to her retentive powers, was both convinced and surprised 
by her committing the whole of Heber's poem on Europe, comprising four hundred 
and twenty lines, in an hour and twenty minutes, though she had never seen it 
before. This she repeated without mistake or hesitation, and apparently without 
effort. 

Though the erroneous theory, that genius may dispense with application and disci- 
pline, was avoided in her culture, yet sufficient time was allowed by her judicious 
mother for free exercise among the works of nature and the attainment of feminine 
accomplishments. She disclosed a strong taste for drawing, while yet a child, in 
which she would doubtless have become distinguished, had it been made a prom- 
inent branch of education. She sketched boldly from nature, in pencil or Indian ink, 
having a vivid perception of whatever was picturesque or grand in scenery, with a 
correctness and length of vision almost as remarkable as her grasp and compass of 
memory. To music she was keenly susceptible, and played well on harp and piano 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. Jl 

accomj^anying them with a clear, melodious voice. She excelled in strains of a pen 
sive character, and also in such national airs as embalmed tradition or suggested 
noble sentiment. These she decidedly preferred to such as merely exhibit superiority 
of voice, or startle by brilliance of execution. She possessed a peculiary soft and 
sustained touch, which gave the piano almost the swell of the organ ; while her tender 
melody of tone in the Welsh and Spanish music, as well as in some touching airs 
brought from Germany by her eldest brother, who learned them there by ear for hia 
Idolized sister, lingered in the hearts of many who had listened to her, long after sha 
had become a denizen of the silent tomb. 

Yet, amid all her zealous devotion to science and to art, poetry was the natural 
breath and expression of her soul. Its impulsive promptings were felt in the lonely 
walk or the convivial circle, amid intense communings with the beautiful in thought, 
or the simple drapery of life's passing occasions. It spoke in, and through her, 
because Heaven bade it. From the age of eight, when she first began to weave 
ideas and feelings into tuneful numbers, to the latest steps of her weary pilgrimage, 
it was a changeless delight and solace. The appellation of poet was early bestowed 
on her, for her effusions had been freely scattered among friends and relatives, 
whenever their joys or sorrows elicited her sympathies. At their suggestion, a 
selection of these effusions was published in a quarto form, before she had numbered 
her fifteenth birthday. 

But what had been admired in manuscript by the partial eye did not propitiate 
strangers or critics, and a verdict on the adventurous volume was pronounced with 
some severity. Had she been simply an aspirant for fame, or moved only by ambi- 
tion to taste the waters of Castaly, this sudden repulse might have moved either to 
despair, or to sarcastic retort, as in the case of the youthful Byron. Yet it touched 
her gentle and susceptible spirit only with a slight chill, and then the tide of spon- 
taneous song flowed on as free as ever. Like a stone cast harshly into a tuneful 
brook, it made the gushing waters that surmounted it more clear and sonorous. 

About this period, her poetry assumed a martial cast. Trumpets, and banners, and 
blood-red fields gave it tone and color. This was not the natural voice of her own 
muse, but of the strong sisterly sympathy with which she followed her two elder 
brothers in the perilous daring of their military profession. One of them was in th« 
campaign under Sir John Moore, and her imagination, kindled by the love coeval 
with waking life, cast over all his deeds and dangers the illusions of chivalry. Her 
poem of " England and Spain, or Valor and Patriotism," written in the heroic 
measure, is, both for legendary research and elevation of sentiment, an unparalleled 
production for a girl of fourteen. Some of its passages have the harmony of Pope, 
with the spirit of Dryden. Its closing invocation, that He who stays the whirlwind 
%nd the thunder would agam send to earth the sacred olive, and restore the festal 



32 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

harmony of nature's prime, shows how little her peaceful and tuneful spirit was in 
unison with brazen-throated war. 

Her residence at Bronwylfa, in Flintshire, whither the family removed in 1809, 
was favorable to the healthful expansion of genius, by combining a sufficient degree 
of social intercourse with solitary study. Its bold and beautiful scenery was 
both congenial to her taste and exciting to her imagination. Thus surrounded and 
exhilarated, the joyous versatility of her nature flowed forth, and sparkled without 
alloy. With the gay she was gay, with children a playmate, with the sorrowful 
sympathetic, on the mountain height an enthusiast, amid the desolate ruin contem- 
plative and serene ; at all times radiant with happiness, and dispensing it like the 
blessed sunbeam. 

Exceedingly beautiful was she in her unclouded youth. On her fair rounded cheek 
was the tint of the opening rose ; her eyes w^ere suffused with brilliance ; natural 
curls, of a rich sunny brown, fell in profusion over brow and shoulder ; every move- 
ment bespoke grace, every feature glowed with intelligent and varying expression. 
At the Hge of fifteen, when each unfolding charm presaged a still brighter bloom, she 
became acquainted with Captain Hemans, an English officer, who was introduced to 
her family while on a visit in the neighborhood. The most impassioned admiration 
on his part was the result, and its fervent expression from a young man of fine 
person and education was not lost on an artless, susceptible heart. A romantic 
imagination endued him with all the elements and attractions of chivalry, and the 
love that he pt'ofessed was reciprocated. The anxious scrutiny of her nearest friends, 
who felt that the character of the man who should take charge of the happiness of 
one so young, so endowed, and so unsophisticated, ought to be thoroughly under- 
stood, as well as remarkably balanced, caused them to rejoice that the intercourse 
was not of long continuance. He was recalled with his regiment to Spain, and 
during three years they never met. Yet it would seem that each had engraven the 
image of the other on the heart's tablet as with a diamond's point, and that the soli 
tary musing of long absence deepened every touch and softened every shadow. 

It was in 1812 that Captain Hemans returned to England, and proceeded imme 
diately to Wales. The constant love so secretly and faithfully cherished drew new 
ardor from every interview* Both were so fully persuaded that the happiness of life 
depended upon their union, that all objections were silenced, and it was permitted to 
take place ere the bride had reached her nineteenth birthday. Bright hopes cast a 
fairy coloring on all around, as with woman's perfect trust she left parents and 
kindred to make an Eden home for him whom she had chosen as her " more than 
brother, and her next to God." 

Daventry, in Northamptonshire, was fixed on as their place of residence, Captain 
Hemans having there a military appointment. In its scenery she forfeited the wild 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 33 



aublimity of her beloved Wales, but was moved to admiration by some of the old 
English baronial halls and ivy-raantled churches, whose quaint style of architecture 
revivified historic associations, and gratified her taste for antiquity. This spot waa 
also consecrated by her attainment of the climax of woman's happiness, the joys of 
maternity — those hallowed joys that spread fresh greenness over the whole soul, and 
which, in this pilgrimage of cloud and sunbeam, it were a misfortune to have misot;^. 
What unspeakable delight must she, whose strains are replete with the highest ai/' 
holiest, afiections, have derived from this inexhaustible fountain ! 

" O, love bids thee welcome, tbe love that hath smiled 
Ever aroiind thee, my gentle child, 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed» 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head." 

In the course of the year 1813, Captain Hemans, in consequence of a transfer of 
military position, returned to Wales, and with his family was domesticated at 
Bronwylfa. Their heartfelt welcome was enhanced by the presence of the beautiful 
infant, Arthur, the object of admiration and delight to every inmate of that pleasant 
abode. Especially to the accomplished and warm-hearted grandmother did hia 
smiles and winning ways recall the pleasures of earlier years, when her own little 
ones gambolled at her side, a perpetual wellspring of hope and joy. 

The life of Mrs. Hemans was now devoted to domestic retirement, A rapidly- 
Increasing family made constant demands upon her attention as well as physical 
vigor. Yet still, with surprising energy she kept intellectual improvement stead- 
fastly in view, and the spirit of song brought her its solace, oft amid the watches of 
the night, as well as during the cares of the day. She read much, and her perse* 
vering industry in extracting and transcribing might have filled the alcove of a 
library. She continued to translate from the languages acquired in early years, to 
which she added the Latin, pursuing its study with persevering ardor duiing such 
intervals of time as she could secure amid the pressure of many and important 
duties. Her love of the classics deepened and extended itself, and began to impart 
a more decided character to her effusions. There was an evident transition from the 
tread of hostile armies — the " pomp and circumstance of war " — to the graceful 
mythological fictions of Greece, and the stern sublimity of Rome, in its unbowed 
and better days. 

In 1816, when at the age of twenty-three, her poems on modern Greece and the 

Restoration of Art in Italy were given to the public, and won general favor. 

Critical reviews, as well as individual suffrage from the highest sources, attested their 

excellence. Still, amid the tide of popular applause, she was diflSdent of her own 

5 



34 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

powers, and, in the choice of subjects, lingered amid the legends of the middle ages, 
even after she had in some measure " broken the spell of dim antiquity." Wc 
cannot but marvel at the variety and depth of her research, and her invincible 
perseverence, especially when we remember that in the course of six years she 
became the mother of five sons, and remember how often our own sex allow far 
slighter claims to obstruct or extinguish even common intellectual advances. 

In 1818, a peculiar and painful event marked the history of her life. Captain 
flemans, who supposed that a warmer climate might be more agreeable to his health, 
left her for Italy, and took up his abode at Rome. It might not have been fully 
contemplated, at the time of his departure, that this separation should be permanent. 
But so it proved ; he never returned, and, during the seventeen years that remained 
to her on earth, saw her face no more. 

Ere this period, it might have been evident to a close observer that uncongeniality 
and indifference were stealing over the current of his affections. Those quiet mental 
pleasures in which she found relaxation from care he gradually ceased to appreciate 
or to sustain. He had neither the wisdom to protect the genius that was casting a 
halo around his own name, nor the generosity to rejoice in those honors that were its 
natural fruit. It has been said that he surrendered himself to literary jealousy ; and 
though this might not exhibit the violence of that passion when it springs from 
suspicions of a grosser nature, yet it as fatally extinguished love, and as fixedly settled 
into dislike or aversion. The pangs that such a change must have wrought in a 
heart nurtured from cradle hours by the fondest sympathy, and from its own 
exquisite structure involving the necessity of loving and being loved, are not for 
us to depict. 

As this cloud shut over her, rupturing the most sacred ties, her nearest kindred 
gathered around her, tenderly striving to uphold and shelter the deserted spirit. She 
wasted not her own energies in unavailing complaint or weak repining, but rallied 
them to endure and to labor, for the sake of the children now committed to her sole 
care. Heaven also mercifully granted that maternal duty, and the clear fountain ol 
poesy in the depth of her own soul, should reveal new powers to assuage sadness 
and cheer desolation. 

A renewed study of German lore, by absorbing a portion of her thoughts, seemed 
to take the form of consolation. Many interesting works in that language were sent 
hp.r by her eldest brother, then connected with the embassy at Vienna. By closer 
intimacy with the history and habitudes of that richly imaginative people, she 
believed that she discerned a spirit of liberality, illustrating her own favorite idea 
of the brotherhood, that ought to pervade the noble field of literature. 

The ancient Cambrian annals, also, profitably occupied some intervals of time 
Willie increasing her knowledge of their language, she imbibed a fervent admiration 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 35 

of the character of the old Welsh bards, whose motto, " In the face of the sun, and 
in the eye of light." was singularly consonant to her own truthful and transparent 
nature. Her views of the elevating influences of poesy were in some measure 
illustrated by the position assigned to the ancient masters of the Cambrian lyre, who 
weve not permitted to mingle in political or religious strife, in whose presence no 
«yeapon must be unsheathed for conflict, and at whose appearance, clad in their 
azure robe as heralds of peace between contending armies, the wild battle cry 
was hushed. 

Ir 1821, Mrs. Hemans sustained the loss of a favorite brother, Claude Scott 
Browne, one year younger than herself, and the endeared playmate of infancy. Hi& 
death took place at the age of 27, in Kingston, Upper Canada, where he was dis- 
charging with ability the duties of an office which he held under government. The 
game region of the western world also received the last breath of her father, who 
died in the city of Quebec, ere her return to Bronwylfa. 

Amid repeated bereavements, and that loneliness of heart that admitted of no 
earthly cure, she was not unhappy, for constant occupation and the divine blessing 
were with her. Constrained by the promptings of genius to give utterance to the 
breath of song, it was evident, to all who witnessed her daily life, how the mother 
predominated over the poet. Her most elaborate and ambitious themes were liable 
to be superseded at any moment by the wants or pleasures of the nursery people 
Arthur's new coat, — George's cough, — a promised walk, — a game at battledore, — 
letters of request to a friend in a distant city to purchase two humming tops of 
differing grades of excellence, — " sundry teeth having been drawn in the family, and 
such treasures promised as the rewards of fortitude on these trying occasions." Affec- 
tionate little poems on their respective birthdays, the decoration of the Christmas 
tree, the preparation of the " twelfth-night cake," the direction of their lessons, the 
guidance of their devotions, all gave her a more intense participation in the minuter 
points of their enjoyment and welfare. The epithets of the *' noble ard gentle <:hild," 
and the sweet descriptions of cradle care and 'hope, that perpetually recur in her 
strains, prove that she found no pursuit or pleasure a substitute for the holy duties 
and heartfelt satisfactions of the mother. 

But where was he who, in these cares and joys, should have had his portion ■— 
he who had the right to take his stand by her side, "of the weak hand, but the strong 
heart," with a husband's sympathy ? Came there no echo to the city of the 
Caesars of the bird-like chirping from his own forsaken nest ? In his dreams, were 
there no little forms, calling " Father " — no image of her w^ho was pouring out her 
life stream in watchings over the pledges of their love — no misgivings, no re- 
lentings? We may not know. 

Expensive repairs and additions to the mansion at Bronwylfa, the property of he; 



36 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 



eldest brother, took place in 1822, of which she humorously remarks, "Such a wa» 
is there of old grates with new grates, in this once tranquil abode, that when 1 mak« 
my escape at fall of eve to some of the quiet green fields by which we are sur- 
rounded, and look back at the house, which from a little distance seems, almost like 
Shakspeare's moonlight, to * sleep upon the bank,' I can scarcely see how so gentle 
booking a dwelling can continue to send forth such an incessant clatter of obstreperous 
aound from its honeysuckle-fringed windows." During these transmutations, while 
heT retreat for poetic composition was a small laundry, it was deemed a convenient 
occasion for her two eldest sons, eight and nine years old, to pay a visit to a clergy- 
man whom they loved, and who had formerly assisted in their instruction while a 
resident in the neighborhood of Bronwylfa. 

Slight incidents are these, yet interesting, as throwing light on the daily domestic 
life of a distinguished woman. Arthur and George had never before been absent 
from home. It was, therefore, an event of much importance in their eyes, and con- 
templated with no little pride. A few weeks glided pleasantly away, and then the 
coming of the mother for them was an era still more to be remembered. She 
herself enjoyed and described it with a delight that only mothers can comprehend. 
A drive of twenty miles, through a picturesque region of bold hills, sparkling 
streams, and rich verdure, amid the song of the skylark, and the perfume of 
indigenous ferns and foxgloves, cheered her worn heart, and disposed it for a higher 
pleasure. At length the peaceful rural parsonage appeared, overshadowed by trees. 
Rushing down its green slope were seen two healthful and beautiful boys, wild with 
happiness. They clapped their hands, they shouted in ecstasy, and springing into 
the carriage, covered their mother with kisses. Then followed the warm welcome 
of hospitality, and the dignified earnestness with which the children did the honors 
of the village, anxious that not one of its wonders — church, bridge, brook, or wild 
6ower — should escape attention ; the fascination of the evening homeward ride, and 
the rapturous reunion with grandmamma and the three merry, untravelled little 
brothers in the nursury. 

The sympathy of the children in their mother's poetry, and in its reception by the 
public, was singularly deep and touching. Every express* on of such favor was 
treasured and commented upon by them ; and when any marked distinction was 
accorded, there came a burst of joy as from a nightingale's nest. It was observed 
that her valuation of these honors seemed to spring from the happiness they imparted 
to the dear ciiole at home. When the prize of the Royal Literary Society was 
decreed to her poem of Dartmoor, she thus writes a friend : " Would that you 
had but seen the children when the prize was announced yesterday ! Arth ar sprang 
up from his Latin exercise and shouted aloud. Their acclamations were actually 
•deafening; and George said that the excess of his pleasure had really given him a 
♦irndarlie " 



MEMOIR OF MRS. IIEMANS. 3," 

Tbe reputation of Mrs. Hemans continued to increase. Criticism was propitious^ 
and friendship sprang up in stranger hearts. The aristocratic Byron, and the 
fastidious Jeffrey, applauded her writings, and the learned Milman gave her advice 
and encouragement. Among the talented of her own sex who expressed approba- 
tion aod sympathy were the distinguished names of Hannah More, Joanna Baillie, 
Mary M*tford, and Mary Howitt. The venerable Bishop of St. Asaph, near whose 
palace sKe resided, and his son-in-law, the gifted Reginald Heber, afterwar^h the 
prelate, t«istified deep interest in her and in her children. The chivalry of noble, 
manly natures roused itself to throw its shield around a "woman, forsaken, and 
grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth, when she was refused." 

In the spring of 1825 she removed to Rhyllon, a residence opposite Bronwylfa, 
from which it was separated by a beautiful river. Both mansions belonged to her 
brother, and were spacious and commodious. Bronwylfa had been compared to a 
bird's nest peering from a bower of roses, and Rhyllon, after her occupancy, was 
continually amassing some new charm — the climbing ivy, or the clustering vine. The 
family consisted of her mother and four sons, it having been deemed advisable that 
Arthur, then in his thirteenth year, should be placed at school. Her second brother 
and his wife, after an absence of several years in Canada, returned and rejoined her 
circle, surroundinty her still more perfectly with those blessed domestic affections in 
which her heart found rest. Never since her unclouded childhood had she been se 
happy as at Rhyllon. Her health was less variable than it had been since her mar- 
riage. She had schooled her sorrowing spirit to silent submission ; her children were 
expanding hopefully ; and she was sustained in those poetical efforts which were in 
Bome measure essential to her livelihood, and at all times to her consolation. The 
earliest hours of each day were devoted to the education of her boys : then came a 
season of writing, to which an extended correspondence, and the claims of vartoua 
editors, — for she had become much connected with the periodical press,— gave a 
character of labor which chastened, perhaps, too much the play of fancy. From thesse 
long mornings of application she would emerge with a fresh burst of youthful spirits, 
and enjoy a ramble with her children among the breezy hills, or to a hamlet nestled 
in the hollow of a mountain about two miles from Rhyllon. Such was her love of 
childhood, and her power of attracting it, that a little peasant girl was wont to st/;al 
from her humble cottage, when she saw the "sweet lady" pass, and confidingly 
placing a tiny hand in hers, walk by her side till her small feet grew weary, and 
then, with many smiles backward cast, turn home again. 

Among the cheering features of her history at this time was the vivid appreciation 
of her poetry on this side of the Atlantic. Boston, our first in Attic taste, was the 
first to discover and hail this daughter of song. Professor Norton, with characteristic 
Qobleness, voluntarily superintended the publication of an edition of her poems Iv 



SS MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 



that city, and wrote her, that whatever profits accrued from it should be her own 
The talented Bancroft, and the eloquent Channing, with others of critical taste and 
elegant scholarship, applauded her genius. These suffrages were to her more 
precious on accouni of the difference of creed, as proving the warmth and extent of 
Christian liberality, and serving to establish her own favorite theory, that poetry 
should be the harmonizer and the love teacher. Beautiful are the common meeting 
grounds of literature and benevolence — like the " field of the cloth of gold," where 
foemen embrace, and prejudices are forgotten. 

Unspeakably soothing to her burdened spirit were the sympathies thus wafted over 
the ocean billows ; and it was affecting to witness the rejoicing of mother and children 
with her at every parcel that came from America. Anecdotes of her boys now and 
then occur in her letters, showing her own fond affection, and that its effects had not 
been in vain. To the warm-hearted Joanna Baillie, she says, " I had been reading to 
one of my boys Byron's magnificent address to the sea, — 

* Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roU ! ' 

ffe listened in almost breathless attention, and the moment I had finished it, 
exclaimed, ' Very grand, indeed ! But how much finer it would have been, mamma, 
had he said, at the close, that God had measured out all those waters in the hollow 
Df his hand ! ' " 

Charlie, also, the youngest of her flock, is mentioned as seated by her side, and 
reading " Warton's Death-Bed Scenes " with the deepest interest. On asking her 
sxplanation of the word atheist, he exclaimed, in amazement, " Not believe in God, 
mamma ! Why, who does he expect made the world and his own body ? " 

But the brightness that gleamed upon her at Rhyllon was destined soon to disap- 
pear. The blessed mother who had been an unfailing spirit of strength and hope, in 
all time of her adversity, was to be summoned from her side. It seemed not to have 
entered her mind, or that of her children, that she who had so long exercised foi 
them all the patient, watchful love that knew no change or weariness, was ever to die. 
First she slightly faltered in the pleasant walk, then she was missed at the cheerful 
meal, then from the family altar, till her place was found only in the curtained 
chamber, where with brightening eye she listened to some new strain of her cherished 
daughter, or to the holy words of that Redeemer in whom was her hope, oreathed 
forth in the sweet tones of the most beloved voice ; and then she listened no more 
on earth. 

It was on the evening of the 11th of January, 1827, that the bereaved one, after 
long, anxious watching, passed from the silent death chamber to the apartment of her 
children. Hushed and awe-struck, they were gathered closely around the fading ttre. 
In her pale, sad face, they saw that all was over. Trained as they had been to turn 



IMEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 39 

to God's blessed book for comfort in affliction, one of the little group, pressing to lier 
Bide, begged permission to read to her a chapter from the Bible. Inexpressibly 
Boothh-.g in this bitter hour was the proof that the loved beings for whom she had 
toiled and prayed had learned to know, and even to lead her to, the true fountain 
of consolation. 

" My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, dear friend," she says in a familiar epistle , 
"but, thank God, my composure is returning, so that I am enabled to resume thos« 
duties that so imperiously call me back to life. I have lost the faithful, watchful, 
patient love that for so many years has been devoted to me and mine ; and I feel 
that the void it has left behind will cause me to bear a yearning heart to the grave." 

Yet she resumed with surprising energy her stated routine of labor, feeling that 
it was not for her to indulge in the listless luxury of grief, though the shield that 
interposed between her and the burden of care was withdrawn. In the autumn of 
1828 she removed to Wavertree, near Liverpool, which was deemed a more favor- 
able place for the education of her boys. The irreparable loss of her mother, and 
the departure of her brother and sister to their distant abode, had so diminished her 
circle, and saddened her home, that it seemed scarcely a home to her. Still, her 
parting from Wales, t^e green land of song and the region of her happiest years, 
was reluctant and painful, and rendered more deeply so by a separation from her 
two eldest sons. Notwithstanding the desertion of her husband, she continued to 
testify the respect and confidence of a wife, by consulting him in letters, with regard 
to the ultimate disposal of their children. In conformity to his directions, Arthur 
and George Willoughby, fourteen and fifteen years old, were sent to him at Rome. 
There the first born, the child of so many hopes, slept the sleep that knows no 
waking, two years after his gentle mother was laid in the tomb. He who had 
earliest taught her that holy joy, which finds no symbol in speech,. — . 

" faded amid Italian flowers, 

The first of that bright band." 

That true and noble friendship for which England as a nation is so conspicuous, 
gave her kind welcome when she turned thither for refuge and a home. Still, 
her experience as a housekeeper, the first winter after her removal, was somewlat 
discouraging. Her three boys were seized with hooping cough, and in addition 
to the fatigue of nursing them day and night, she herself participated _n that dis 
tressmg disease. Her health, of which she had never at any time been jyrudently 
considerate, suffered severely ; and the whole invalid group were sent in the spring, 
by command of their physician, to the sea shore for change of air and restoration. 

The ensuing summer she was induced, by urgency of friends, to take a voyage to 
Hootland. The time spent in that land of true and warm sympathy was one ■)f the 



40 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

goldsn threads in the tissue of her darkened years. Especially was her visit to Sii 
Walter Scott rich in cherished recollections. His cordial greeting to his mountain 
home, and generous admiration of her talents and virtues, reassured her spirits, and 
had a rejuvenating influence upon her health. They roamed together through the 
romantic scenery by which Abbotsford is surrounded, and expatiated on the legendary 
loro of many lands. After one of these excursions, she writes, — 

" This day has been one of the happiest, I was going to say — but I am too 
isolated a being to use that word ; yet, at least, one of the pleasantest and most 
cheerfully exciting of my whole life. Again and again shall I think of that walk, 
under the old solemn trees that hang over the mountain stream of Yarrow, with Sir 
Walter beside me, his voice frequently breaking out, as if half unconsciously, into 
Bome verse of the antique ballads, which he repeats with deep and homely pathos." 

He was delighted with her musical performances, especially the martial airs of 
Wales and Germany, and exulted to lead her to the piano, even when princes were 
his guests. 

" I should say you had too many gifts, Mrs. Hemans," was one of his kind re 
marks, "if they were not all used in giving pleasure to others." 

The heart of her boys, whom his hospitable and frank reception made imme- 
diately at home, overflowed with joy and pride at the honors accorded to theii 
idolized mother. " Little Charlie," the youngest, was especially amused, when once, 
on the approach of their party to visit Newark tower, two tourists were seen 
precipitately retreating ; and the benignant bard exclaimed, " Ah ! Mrs. Hemans, 
they little know what two lions they are running away from." 

At the close of her delightful stay, which she was persuaded to prolong beyond 
her original intention, his farewell words at the gate of Abbotsford were affec- 
tionately treasured : " There are some whom we meet, and should like ever after 
to claim as kith and kin. You are one of these" 

In other parts of Scotland her gentle spirit was also made glad. Edinburgh, 
with its society and scenery, left with her pleasing and indelible impressions. She 
was cheered at seeing her children happy, and their loving hearts were in a state 
of constant exultation at finding their " heroine mamma " so highly regarded. It 
has been remarked that she naturally won the love of children wherever she met 
tbem. Thus it was with the aged. She singled them out, and treated them with 
reverence. Her affectionate words melted the frosts of years, and revivified dor- 
mant memories. Mackenzie, the white-haired " Man of Feeling," even in his 
brokenness of mind, kindled with ^ jvid recollections at her voice ; and the venerable 
Roscoe, and Sir Robert Liston, rejoiced in her society. Tender and truthful must 
have been that nature, which could alike charm the simplicity of waking life an<^ 
*he weariness of its close. 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 41 



It was in June, 1830, that she accomplished what she had long desired — a tour to 
the lakes of Westmoreland. Tremulous health, and the celebrity which had become 
a burden by depriving her of the time either to meditate or to rest, required this 
recreation. A desire of seeing Wordsworth, whose poetry had become to her an 
enthusiastic study, was another motive for this excursion. His patriarchal manner, 
an. the sweet life that he led in his rose and ivy- wreathed bower, enchanted her. 
After somewhat more than a fortnight passed delightfully with him at Rydal Mount, 
sLe was gratified at discovering that she might secure in his neighborhood a re- 
tired cottage for the remainder of the summer. It was on the banks of the fair 
Winandermere, and bore the appropriate appellation of the " Dove's Nest." From 
this sweet seclusion, she writes, — 

" How shall I tell you of all the loveliness by which I am surrounded — all the 

soothing and holy influences it seems shedding down into my inmost heart ? I have 

sometimes feared, within the last two years, that the effect of suffering and of 

adulation, of feelings too highly wrought and too severely tried, would be to dry 

up within me the fountains of such pure and simple enjoyment. But now, J 

know that 

• Nature never did betray 

The heart that loved her.' " 

That sacred " Dove's Nest," on the green shore of the fair lake, with what emotion 
I surveyed it when a traveller in that region ! — with what mournful regret, that I 
might not have come ere its loved habitant had spread her wings to the ark of 
heavenly rest ! I beheld her in fancy through the twisted eglantine, a tender per 
bonification of her own descriptive lines, — 

" Mother, with the earnest eye, 
Ever following silently," — 

the gambols of her boys, who some tourist has designated as young eagles, for then jwift- 
ness and spirit. Almost her own descriptive words seemed audible to my ear : — 

" See ! there is Claude, climbing the hill above the " Nest ; " Henry with his fishing 
rod: and Charles sketching; while I, in feeling, am even more a child than any 
of tb'jm." 

Wordsworth, too, then in the serene philosophy of his seventieth year, awakened 
the same admiration that she had expressed of " the beauty of his daily life, in such 
perfect harmony with his poetry." With the same paternal manner that she so 
happily depicted, he led me by the hand over the same grounds adorned by hie 
laste and consecrated by his genius, and spoke of her with a touching tendemess,- 

" Ah, poor soul ! she wrote too much — too much." 
6 



42 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

Yes, doubtless too much for the physical welfare of a frame bowed more by 
sorrow than time. "While strong claims were enforcing incessant labor, she was stiU 
constrained to admit the alarming symptoms of palpitation of an over-wearied hsart^ 
occasional faintings, a fiery pain in the breast and side, and flushing of cheek and 
temple after intellectual toil. Appropriate indeed was the name of this temporary 
retreat, among England's most untroubled waters, to her, who, like a wounded dove, 
pressed her wing silently over the pierced side while the lifeblood ebbed away 
If there are any who infer from the occasional buoyancy of her spirits that the 
covered wound was slightly felt, they but reveal their ignorance of woman's heart 
its depth, its delicacy, or its pride. 

The pearls 
Lie all too deep in her soul's secret well 
For the unpausing or impatient hand 
To draw them forth. 

Though no human being could be more free from the weak ostentation that utters 
complaint, or makes a parade of wrongs, merely to invoke sympathy, yet here and 
there, among her writings, traces may be gathered of the secret sorrow that over- 
shadowed her life. Of some of her most popular lyrics she has said, " They are but 
the broken music of a troubled heart." In a letter of condolence to her friend 
Mary Howitt, she confesses, — 

" I have felt that feverish thirst for the sound of a departed voice or footstep, in 
which the heart seems to die away and become a fountain of tears." 

Still more explicit is that swan-like melody, — 

" Faint spirit, strive no more ! 
For thee too strong 
Are outward ill, and wrong ; 
Thy life, Uke trampled flowers. 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household charities no longer boimd. 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 
Yes, fade ! fade on ! Thy gift of love shall cling, 

A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, — 
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, — 
All sensitive to pain. 

Though the blasts of advancing years sometimes swept aside the veil that she had 
,ong so closely drawn, they also mercifully strengthened the root of that piety, by 
i?hich she submitted all to the divine will, and found peace from its discipline. 

In the autumn of 1831 she removed to the neighborhood of Dublin, not having 



MEMOIR OF MRS. IIEMaNS. 43 

found the climate of England so congenial to her health as she had anticipated, and 
desiring to be near her brother, who held an office in Ireland, that she might enjoy 
his counsel and aid with regard to the training of her sons. It was decided that the 
two elder oTies should be placed at a school of high reputation in the vicinity, and 
the youngest continue at home, having his scholastic education superintended by a 
competent and pious student of Trinity College. Here she resumed her usual routine 
of industrious occupation, as far as strength permitted, avoiding the claims of general 
society and the taxes of fame as far as possible. The works of nature and of art, 
and quiet intercourse with a few familiar friends, were all that she needed or desired 
for recreation. Brief excursions during the more genial seasons* occasionally varied 
her lot, but failed in their former renovating effect. Gradually impaired vigor, and 
the command of physicians, laid restrictions upon her rigid course of employment. 
She was compelled in a great measure to give up her correspondence, which had 
become extensive and exceedingly laborious. Being obliged almost constantly to 
preserve a recumbent position, the use of the pen became fatiguing ; and she some- 
times retained a poem in her memory for weeks, waiting for strength to enable her to 
commit it to paper. On one occasion she sent for a friend to come with her pencil 
and write a sonnet that had floated through her mind like a singing bee, while she 
lay suffering under the infliction of a blister. 

Still her constitution retained some remnant of its original elasticity, and the vernal 
season of 1833 seemed to open with a gleam of promise. The depth which her piety 
was continually gaining induced her to mingle with this transient hope of recovery 
a consecration of her genius to those hallowed themes which are connected with the 
soul and its eternal Source. On being enabled again to attend church and partake 
of the sacrament, her sublimated and grateful spirit recurs to the same subject : — 

"My heart is much in this plan, and I hope to enshrine in it whatever I may 
have been endowed with of power and melody." 

We trust the sincere desire was accepted, though time for it* fulfilment was 
denied, and that she was inly cheered, like the sweet Psalmist of Israel, who, when 
he would fain have built a glorious temple to the Lord, heard the refusal coupled 
with the divine assurance, " Thou didst well that it was in thine heart." 

She was still comforting herself that her " true task was to enlarge the sphere of 
gacred poetry and extend its influence," when the last sickness came. It was late 
in the autumn of 1834 that a severe cold added pulmonary symptoms to previous 
disease, and produced hopeless decline. Change of air having been recommended, 
the thoughtful kindness of Archbishop and Mrs. Whately placed at her disposal 
their delightful country seat of Redesdale, seven miles from Dublin, where every 
thing that the most delicate consideration could suggest for her comfort was assidu 
>usly and affectionately provided. Rich was she in friendships throughout her whr^le 



i4 MiiAlOm OF MkS. hemans. 

life, in friendships with the wisest and best. It would seem as if the deprivation 
of affections to which she naturally turned for solace had been in some measure 
compensated by their springing up where she least expected them. In a pencilled 
QOte from this peaceful retirement, she says, — 

"Far better than any indication of recovery is the sweet religious p(»ace which 
I feel gradually overshadowing me with its dove-like pinions, excluding all thai 
would exclude thoughts of God." 

The weight of maternal care and anxiety, which hacl sometimes pressed heavily 
upon her, had been mercifully lifted from her spirit's wings ere they unfolded 
for their returnless flight. Arthur still remained with his father. George, having 
completed his course at the military college in Soreze with the highest praise of his 
superiors, had returned and accepted a situation as engineer in the north of Ireland, 
and was thus enabled sometimes to visit and cheer his beloved mother. Claude, who 
had made choice of the mercantile profession and received an eligible offer in the 
United States, had sailed for that land which she regarded with so much gratitude, 
while she was yet in comparatively comfortable health. Henry passed the Christmas 
holidays by her invalid couch at Redesdale, soothing her by his tender attentions ; and, 
soon after, her heart overflowed with gladness too deep for words at an unexpected 
letter from Sir Robert Peel, appointing him to a clerkship in the Admiralty, and 
enclosing a munificent donation. Charles, the youngest, accounted it his highest 
privilege never to have been separated from her. With what earnest love did her 
eyes rest upon him, as, bending over her pillow, he read in softened tones, or wrote from 
her dictation the tuneful thoughts that visited her, or mingled with hers the breathing 
of his own devotion ! He was admitted to his first communion kneeling by her bedside. 
There the mother, so soon to be offered up, stretched her feeble hand to take the 
symbols of a Savior's love with him to whose infant lips she had first taught the 
words, "Suffer the little ones to come unto me." 

In March, 1835, it was thought expedient that she should be removed to her home, 
that she might be more accessible to her physicians, being reduced to a state of 
almost infantine weakness. Her brother and his wife accompanied and remained 
with her, soothing her by the most affectionate and unremitting attentions to the last. 
Her calmness and resignation were without a cloud. She often spoke of the " sweet 
nesa of her couch," and her chamber of sickness seemed lighted from above. 
Flowers and music still inexpressibly cheered her, and the holy book of God was 
her tomfort in all affliction. Those dispensations of Providence which might once 
Aave seemed dark shone forth in beauty, as the discipline of unerring wisdom, to 
draw her nearer unto itself. Entire humility took possession of her soul, so that 
her language was, " Behold the handmaid of the Lord ; be it unto me according 
tc thy will/* 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 4a 

To the faithful servant who had been with her many years, who in her nursing 
care was ever at her side, and in whose spiritual improvement she was tenderly 
interested, she would sometimes say, — 

" O Anna, do you not love your kind Savior ? I am like a quiet babe at his 
feet, and yet my spirit is full of his strength. I feel as a tired child, weary, and 
longing to mingle with the pure in heart." 

Her remarkable memory remained with her as a source of consolation. In wake- 
ful hours she would repeat to herself whole pages of sacred poetry, and chapter after 
chapter from the Scriptures, with a tranquillizing effect. Nature still continued lovely 
to her. The breath of a blossom, the song of a bird, were as the voice of His good- 
ness in whose will her own was perfectly absorbed. Only bright and sweet dreams 
visited her pillow. Yet, to use her own words, — 

" No poetry can express, no imagination conceive, the visions of blessedness that 
flit across my fancy, and make my waking hours more delightful than even those of 
temporary repose." 

On Sunday, the 26th of April, her brother wrote from her pale lips that exquisitely 
beautiful " Sabbath Sonnet," her last music strain on earth. She lingered still into 
f^e pleasant May, calm in faith and hope, and ready to be released. She seemed to 
eel the rush of wings, and to hear, breathing as from lutestrings, " Come up 
hither ! " Angels were watching for the pure in heart. The last tie that held her 
from them was gently sundered on Saturday, May 16, 1835. At nine in the evening, 
while hovering on the confines of an earthly Sabbath, the gate of paradise opened 
for her. The soul of melody went to its own place, and the mortal put on immortality. 



To eulogize the poetry of Mrs. Hemans is now a work of supererogation. Indeed, 
to analyze it seems almost arrogant, especially in these United States, where, from the 
time that our " beautiful Trimountain " first pointed with golden finger to this daugh- 
ter of the Muses, she has been followed with an intimate and loving worship. More 
tlian any other female poet of the motherland, she has been naturalized in our new 
western world. Some of them may have possessed bolder inventive and* tragic 
power, like Joanna Baillie ; or more of the high old Attic spirit, like Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning Yet their works have lingered rather in the boudoirs of wealth, or 
relied for full appreciation on the classic or the philosopher. 

But in what region of the Pilgrim's Land is she not at home who struck the key- 
tone of the Pilgrim's Hymn ? In the cabinet, and in the library, by the winter fire, 
where the farmer reads aloud to his children, and from the tent of the emigrant oo 



46 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

the Rocky Mountains or the shores of the Pacific, swells her soul-stirring chorua 
•* Freedom to worship God!" 

Emphatically has she been styled the poet of her own sex. The hopes, the affections 
the duties of woman, as woman, find expression in her highest eloquence of song 
She gathers no inspiration from any broader or more brilliant sphere of action, some- 
times coveted for her, but difficult to define, and impossible to attain, save at the 
expense of integral delicacies or inherent privileges. In what other strains so sweet 
and persuasive do we hear of her reliance on an arm made strong by Heaven 
for her protection — of her unswerving faith — her fearless constancy — her love 
without sediment of self, and smiling in death ? 

Her genius is the exponent of the great heart of humanity. Like the bee, it 
gathers from all lands the essence and finer spirit of their legendary lore. It con- 
cocts, not the honey of Hymettus alone, but the aroma of all pure thoughts and 
noble deeds, from the wilderness to the throne. Wherever there is a charm in nature, 
it glides like the rejoicing sunbeam ; wherever there is a sorrow or a tomb, its sighing 
sympathies are like the pity of an angel. 

Where is the heart that has not leaped up to newer life at "The Voice of Spring"? 
By what hearthstone, however lowly, have there not been teais crer "The Graves 
of a Household"? Who that has lost a loved one beneath the whelming surge 
but has thrilled with trembling emotion at her trumpet cry, ^^ Restore the Dead, thou 
Sea" 7 

Still, unambitious of fame, and led onward by consecrated genius, as well as sanc- 
tified suffering, to deeper humility and .i^^re sublimated faith, was she whose lays and 
life equally awaken admiration, and who, in the eloquent words of a contemporary, 
is " praised by all who read her, loved by all who praise, and known, in some degree^ 
wherever our language is spoken." 

L.H S. 

HabtfobD; Cokv.* May 1, 1853. • 



ak^ 



POETICAL WORKS 



FELICIA HEMANS 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



MRS. HEMANS 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



»JS MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

WRITTEN AT THE AOB OF EIGHT. 

Clad in all their brightest green, 
Tliis day the verdant fields are seen ; 
Die tuneful birds begin their lay, 
To celebrate thy natal day. 

The breeze is stiU, the sea is calm, 
And the whole scene combines to charm ; 
Thp flowers revive, this charming May, 
liecause it is thy natal day. 

The sky is blue, the day serene, 
And only pleasure now is seen ; 
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay. 
Combine to bless thy natal day. 



A PRAYER. 

WKITTEN AT THE AGE OF FINE. 

O God ! my Father and my Friend, 
Ever Thy blessings to me send ; 
Let me have Virtue for my guide, 
And Wisdom always at my side. 
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go, 
Vor ever feel the sting of woe ; 
7 



Contented with the humblest lot — 
Happy, though in the meanest cot 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIT\ 

WRITTEW AT THE AGE OF SLETEK. 

The infant muse, Jehovah, would aspire 

To swell the adoration of the lyre : 

Source of all good ! O, teach my voice to sing 

Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beautia 

spring ; 
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise. 
Who saidst to Chaos, •• Let the earth arise " 
O, Author of the rich, luxuriant year. 
Love, Truth, and Mercy in Thy works appear. 
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep 
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep. 
O, could I number Thy inspiring ways. 
And wake the voice of animated praise ! 
Ah, no ; the theme shall swel a cherub's not© •. 
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 
'Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing 
Thee, God of mercy. Heaven's immortal Kina: ' 
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire — 
O, fill my heart with elevated fire : 
With angel songs an artless voice shall blend. 
The grateful oiFering shaU to Thee ascend. 



50 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



^es, I'hou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my Ijve, 
A.nd " fiU mj- beating heart with sacred fire ! " 
A.nd when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given, 
tlaiie me to join Eliza,- blest in Heaven. 



SHAKSPEARE. 

WEITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. 

[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, 
<*'hirh slie read, as hei choicest recreation, at six years old ; 
and in later days she would often refer to the hours of ro- 
mance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own — a seat 
amongst the branches of an old apple tree — where, revel- 
ling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would 
become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it 
revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven 
years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthu- 
siasm. — Memoir of Mrs. Hemnns by her Sister, pp. 6, 7.] 

I LOVE to rove o'er History's page, 

Recall the hero and the sage ; 

Revive the actions of the dead, 

And memory of ages fled. 

Yet it yields me greater pleasure 

To read the poet's pleasing measure. 

Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired, 

The bosom's energies are fired ; 

We learn to shed the generous tear 

O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier ; 

To love the merry moonlit scene, 

With fairy elves in valleys green ; 

Or, borne on Fancy's heavenly wings, 

To listen while sweet Ariel sings. 

How sweet the " native wood notes wild " 

Of him, the Muses' favorite child I 

Of him whose magic lays impart 

Each various feeling to the heart ! 



TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN 
THE COUNTRY. 

WBITlKfl AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. 

[At about the a^e of eleven, she passed a winter in Lon- 
i»a with her father and mother , and a similar sojourn was 
l»7«tted in the following jear, after which she never vis- 
lt«d ihe metropolis. The contrast between the confinement 
of a towr life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain 
!iome, was even tlien so distasteful to her, that the indul- 
gences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and 
she longed to rejoin lier younger brother and sister in their 
favorite rural haimts and amusements — the nuttery wood, 
the beloved apple tree, the old arbor with its swing, the 
post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family 
letters was established, the pool where fairy ships were 

I A eistei vhom the auth ^r had lost. 



launched, (generally painted and decoraled by herself,) and 
dearer still, the fresh, free ramble on the sea shore, or \V.t 
mountain expedition to the Signal Station, .-^r the Roman En 
campment. In one of her letters, the pleiisure with wliicl. 
she looked forward to her return home was thus expresse.' 
in rhyme. — Memoir, pp. 8, 9.] 

Happy soon we'll meet again, 
Free from sorrow, care, and pain ; 
Soon again we'll rise with dawn, 
To roam the verdant, dewy lawn ; 
Soon the budding leaves we'll hail, 
Or wander through the well-known rale • 
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers •, 
And sport away the light- winged hours. 
Soon we'll run the agile race ; 
Soon, dear pla^Tnates, we'll embrace ; 
Through the wheat field or the grove, 
We'll hand in hand delighted rove; 
Or, beneath some spreading oak, 
Ponder the instructive book ; 
Or -view the ships that swiftly glide, 
Floating on the peaceful tide ; 
Or false again the carolled lay ; 
Or join again in mirthful play ; 
Or listen to the humming bees. 
As their murmurs swell the breeze ; 
Or seek the primrose where it springs; 
Or chase the fly with painted wings ; 
Or talk beneath the arbor's shade ; 
Or mark the tender, shooting blade ; 
Or stray beside the babbling stream. 
When Luna sheds her placid beam ; 
Or gaze upon the glassy sea — 
Happy, happy shall we be ! 



SC»NNET TO MY MOTHER. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE. 

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, 

I pour the genuine numbers free from art — 
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth ; 

For thou wilt prize the efl'usion of the hem, 
O, be it mine, with sweet and pious care. 

To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; 
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear» 

With fond endearments to impart relief: 
Be mine thy warm aff'ection to repay 

With duteous love in thy declining hours ; 

My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, 
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way ; 

Still may thy grateful children round the* 
smile — 

Their pleasing care aifliction shall begtule. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



SONNET. 

WEITTEX AT THE AGE OF THIETEEX. 

Tia sweet to think the spirits of the blest 

May hover round the virtuous man's repose ; 
A-nd oft in. visions animate his breast, 

And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. 
The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, 

May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, 
Inspire the pious fervor of his soul. 

And whisper to his bosom hallowed peace. 
Ah, tender thought ! that oft with sweet relief 

May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, 
Eeguili with magic poAver the tear of grief. 

And pensive pleasure with devotion blend ; 
While oft he fancies music, SAveetly faint, 
The airy lay of some departed saint. 



RURAL WALKS. 

WEITTEX AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

O, MAY I ever pass my happy hours 

In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers ; 

For every spot in sj-lvan beauty drest. 

And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. 

And much I love to hail the vernal mom. 

When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn ; 

And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, 

To cuU the tender rosebuds in my way ; 

And seek in every wild, secluded dell, 

The weeping cowslip and the azure bell ; 

With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, 

To form the gay festoon of varied hue. 

And oft I seek the cultivated green. 

The fertile meadow, and the village scene ; 

Where rosy children sport around the cot. 

Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. 

And there I wander by the cheerful rill, 

That murmurs near the osiers and the mill ; 

To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, 

And listen to their pleasing, festive lay. 

[ love to loiter in the spreading grove. 

Or in the mountain scenery to rove ; 

Where summits rise in awful grace around. 

With hoary moss and tufted verdure crowned ; 

Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, 

" And frown upon the vale " with grandeur 

wild : 
A.nd there I view the mouldering tower sublime, 
A.rrayed in all the blending shades of Time. 

The airy upland and the woodland green, 
Che vall3y, and romantic mountain scene ; 



The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, 
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane ; 
" And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, 
And every landscape, charms my youthfu 
breast." 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEV. 

[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long beer 
regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiratitm 
perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the 
world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quartr 
volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions o. 
some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,l and the young 
poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perih 
attendant upon the career of an autlior ; though it may here 
be observed that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was 
at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with 
any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this 
unexpected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, hei 
buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her efl^usions contin- 
ued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the 
skylark.] 

I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour 

When Evening spreads around her twilight 
veil ; 
"SMien dews descend on every languid flower, 

And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. 
Then let me Avander by the peaceful tide. 

While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play ; 
To hear the waters murmur as they glido, 

To mark the fading smile of closing day. 
There let me linger, blest in visions dear, 

Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas ; 
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear, 

Of airy music floating on the breeze. 
For still when evening sheds the genial dews. 
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse. 

1 The criticism referred to, and which, considering th- 
circumstances under which the volume appeared, was ce'- 
tainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran a.i 
follows : — 

" We hear that these poems are the ' genuine productions 
of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and 
thirteen years,' and we do not feel inclined to question the 
intelligence ; but altliough the fact may insure tliem an 
indulgeflt reception from all those who have ' cliildren dear' 
yet, when a little <x\v\ publishes a large quarto, we are dis 
posed to examine hofore we admit her claims to public at 
tention. Many of Miss Browne's compositions are extremely 
jejune. However, though Miss Browne's poems contain 
some erroneous and some pitiable lines, we must praise xh( 
' Reflections in a ruined Castle,' and the poetic strain iti 
which tliey are delivered. Tlie lines to 'Patriotism' con- 
tain good thoughts and forcible images ; and if the youthf,il 
author were to content herself for some years with readir^' 
instead of writing, we should open any future work fron 
her pen with an expectation of pleasure, founded on oui 
recollectitm of tbis publication ; though we mii-t, at the 
same time, observe that premature talents arc not alwavi 
to be considered as sisns of future exreilence. Tiie honey 
suckle attains maturity before tlie oak'' — .Monthly Rf 
view, 1809 



ft2 



jmTlXILE POEMS. 



ENGLAND A.ND SPAIN; OR, VALOR 
AND PAimOTISM. 

•VTRITTEN AT THE AOE OF FOURTEKX. 

. " His sword the brave man draws, 
A:b1 asks no omen but his country's cause." — Pope. 

[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her 
fiew. Birthday addresses, songs by the sea shore, and in- 
r;tcar.ons lo tairies, were henceforth to be diversified with 
warlike themes; and trumpets and banners now floated 
through the dreams in nliich bird.s and flowers had once 
reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered 
the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d 
Royal Welsh Fusileers. One of them was now engaged in 
the .Spanish campaign under Sir John Moore ; and a vivid 
imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted 
in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions 
•jf British valor and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent 
rlew, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the 
very names which were of daily occurrence in the de- 
spatches, were involuntarily associated with the deeds ot 
Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, 
»< The Cid Ruy Diaz," the Campeador. Under the inspira- 
tion of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled " Eng- 
land and Spain," which was published, and afterwards 
translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as 
a verj' remarkable production for a girl of fourteen — lofty 
sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowl- 
edge, being all strikingly displayed in it. — Memoir, pp. 
10, 11. 

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined 
To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind ; 
Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe, 
And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe ! 
O'er Europe's cultured realms and climes afar, 
Triumphant Gaul has poured the tide of war ; 
To her fair Austria veiled the standard bright ; 
Ausonia's lovelj' plains have owned her might; 
While Prussia's eagle, never taught to yield, 
Forsook her towering height on Jena's field ! 

O gallant Frederic ! could thy parted shade 
Have seen thy country vanquished and betrayed, 
How had thy soul indignant mourned her shame, 
Her sullied trcphies, and her tarnished fame ' 
When Valor wept lamented Brunswick's doom, 
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb ; 
When Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave, 
Invoked his spirit to descend and save ; 
Then set her glories — then expired her sun, 
A.nd fraud acliieved e'en more than conquest 
won ! 

O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty 

Has Desolation spread her ample sway ; 
Thy blast, O Ruin ! on tremendous wings, 
Has proudly swept o'er empires, nations, kings. 



Thus the wild hurricane's impetuoMS force 
With dark destruction marks its whelming 

course, 
Despoils the woodland's pomp, the blooming 

plain, 
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train ! 
Rise, Freedom, rise, and, breaking from thy 

trance, 
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering 

lance ! 
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause, 
And call thy champions to defend thy laws ! 
How long shall tyrant power her throne main 

tain ? 
How long shall despots and usurpers reign ? 
Is honor's lofty soul forever fled ! 
Is virtue lost ? is martial ardor dead .'' 
Is there no heart where worth and valor dwell 
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell ? 
Yes, Freedom ! yes ! thy sons, a noble band. 
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand ; 
Once more, 'tis thine, invincible to wield 
The beamy spear and adamantine shield ! 
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows. 
Again thy lion glance appalls thy foes ; 
Thy kindling eyebeam darts unconquered fires, 
Thy look sublime the warrior's heart inspires ; 
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right. 
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, 
Lo ! Britain's generous host their aid supply, 
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die ; 
And Glory smiles to see Ibella's name 
Enrolled with Albion's in the bct^k of fame ! 

Illustrious namiis! still, still united beam, 
Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme ; 
So, when two radiant gems together shine, 
And in one wreath their lucid light combine ; 
Each, as it sparkles with transcenaent rays. 
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. 

Descend, O Genius ! from thy orb descend 
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend 
As Memnon's harp (so ancient fables say) 
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray, 
So let the chords thy heavenly presence own, 
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone ; 
Call from the sun, her burning throne on higi» 
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightnmg eye ; 
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire. 
And breathe the soul of rapture o'er the lyre 

Hail, Albion ! hail, thou land of freedom 
birth ! 
Pride ot the main, and Pha \ix of the earth ! 



EiN GLAND AND SPAIN. 



61 



Ne'er, goddess ! ne'er forsake thy favorite isle, 
Still be thy Albion brightened with thy smile 1 
ijong had thy spirit slept in dead repose. 
While proudly triumphed thine insulting foes ; 
Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo's light. 
Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight ; 
Once more we see thy kindling soul retvirn. 
Thy vestal flame with added radiance burn; 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thine ardor lives, 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives ! 

Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band ! 
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand. 
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day 
Streamed o'er the smiling land in long array. 
Though tyrant Asia poured unnumbered foes, 
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose ; 
For every state in sacred union stood, 
Strong to repel invasion's whelming flood ; 
Each heart was glowing in the general cause. 
Each hand prepared to guard their hallowed 

laws ; 
Athenian valor joined Laconia's might, 
And but contended to be first in fight ; 
From rank to rank the warm contagion ran. 
And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van. 
Then Persia's monarch mourned his glories lost. 
As wild confusion winged his flying host ; 
Then Attic bards the hjonn of victory sung. 
The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung ! 
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record 
The high achievements of the conquering sword. 
Thus, brave CastiHans ! thus may bright re- 
nown 
And fair success your valiant efl'orts crown ! 

Genius of chivalry ! whose early days 
Tradition still recounts in artless lays ; 
Whose faded splendors fancy oft recalls — 
The floating banners and the lofty halls. 
The gallant feats thy festivals displayed. 
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade ; 
Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail, 
in fabling numbers, or heroic tale : 
Itose times are fled, when stern thy castles 

frowned, 
rLeir stately towers with feudal grandeur 

crowned ; 
Those times are fled, when feir Iberia's clime 
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime ; 
And all thy glories, a\^ thy deeds of yore, 
live but in legends wild, and poet's lore. 
Lo ! where thy silent harp neglected lies, 
'light o'er its chords the murmuring zephyr 

sighs ; 



Thy solemn courts, where once the minstip 

sung, 
The choral voice of mirth aud music rung ; 
Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone, 
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan ; 
Thy lonely toAvers deserted fall away, 
Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay. 
Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone 
Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown ; 
Genius of chivalry I thy noble train, 
Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain ! 
Fair truth arrayed in robes of spotless white, 
Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light ; 
Warm emulation, with aspiring aim, 
Still darting forward to the wreatli of fame ; 
And purest love, that waves his torch divine, 
At awful honor's consecrated shrine ; 
Ardor, with eagle wing and fiery glance ; 
And generous courage, resting on his lance : 
And loyalty, by perils unsubdued ; 
Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude ; 
And patriot energy, with heart of flame — 
These, in Iberia's sons are yet the same ! 
These from remotest days their souls have fireu 
*' Nerved every arm," and every breast inspired 
When Moorish bands their sufi'ering land pos- 
sessed, 
And fierce oppression reared her giant crest, 
The wealthy caliphs on Cordova's throne 
In eastern gems and purple splendor shone , 
Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied 
With stately Bagdat's Oriental pride ; 
Theirs were the courts in regal pomp arrayed, 
Where arts and luxury their charms displayed 
'Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar's costly towers. 
Its fairy palace and enchanted bowers ; 
There all Arabian fiction e'er could tell 
Of potent genii or of wizard spell — 
All that a poet's dream could picture bright, 
One sweet Elysium, charmed the wonderlin 

sight ! 
Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand, 
It seemed an Eden from Armida's wand I 

Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and ra^3 'ul 

state. 
When freedom w-aved on high the sword of fate 
When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear, 
Stern retribution frowning on his spear ; 
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, 
O'erwhelmed with shame, confessed the CUiris 

tian's might. 

In later times the gallant Cid arose. 
Burning with zeal against his country's foes 



a 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



glorious isle — O sovereign of the waves ! 
Thine are the sons -who " never will be slaves ! " 
See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, 
And rend the laurels of insulting France ; 

To brave Castile their potent aid supply, 

A.nd wave, O Freedom ! wave thy sword on high ! 

Is there no bard of heavenly poAver possessed 
lo thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast ? 
Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway, 
A.nd call each wayward passion to obey ? 
Is there no bard, imbued with hallowed fire, 
To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre ; 
Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine. 
The patriot's name to ages might consign ? 
Rise, Inspiration ! rise ! be this thy theme, 
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam ! 

O, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, 
And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling 

string ! 
Could she the bosom energies control. 
And pour imjjassioned fervor o'er the soul ! 
0, could she strike the harp to Milton given. 
Brought by a cherub from th' empyrean heaven ! 
Ah, fruitless wish ! ah, prayer preferred in vain, 
For her — the humblest of the woodland train ; 
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise 
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise ! 

Iberian bands ! whose noble ardor glows 
lopour confusion on oppressive foes ; 
Intrepid spirits, hail ! 'tis yours to feel 
The hero's fire, the freeman's godlike zeal ! 
Not to secure dominion's boundless reign. 
Ye w-ave the flag of conquest o'er the slain ; 
No cruel rapine leads you to the war, 
Nor mad ambition, whirled in crimson car. 
No, brave Castilians ! yours a nobler end. 
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend ! 
For these, for these, your valiant legions rear 
The floating standard, and the lofty spear ! 
The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, 
Fir^d by the image of the maid adored ! 
[Ti'; best beloved, his fondest ties to aid, 

1 he father's hand unsheathes the glittering 

blade ! 
For each, for all, for every sacred right, 
The daring patriot mingles in the fight ! 
And e'en if love or friendship fail to warm. 
His country's name alone can nerve his daunt- 
less arm ! 

He bleeds ! he falls ! his death bed is the field ! 
His dirge th«? trumpet, and his bier the shield ! 



His closing eyes the beam of valor speak, 
The flush of ardor lingers on his cheek ; 
Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes. 
Then for his country breathes a prayer — anrt 

dies ! 
O ! ever hallowed be his verdant grave — 
There let the laurel spread, the nj-press wave ! 
Thou, lovely Spring ! bestow, to grace his tomt . 
Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom 5 
There let the tears of heaven descend in balm. 
There let the poet consecrate his paiin i 
Let honor, pity, bless the holy ground. 
And shades of sainted heroes watch around ! 
'Twas thus, w^hile Glory rung his thrilling knell, 
Thy chief, O Thebes ! at Mantinea fell ; 
Smiled undismayed within the arms of death, 
While Victory, weeping nigh, received his 

breath ! 

O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul ! 
Thou source of energies beyond control ! 
Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, 
Whose sons unconquered fight, undaunted 

bleed, — 
Inspiring Liberty ! thy worshipped name 
The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame ; 
Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, 
Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. 
More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, 
Where ne'er a flower expands, a zephyr blows 
Where Winter, binding nature in his chain. 
In frostwork palace holds perpetual reign ; 
Than, far from thee, w^ith frolic step to rove 
The green savannas and the spicy grove ; 
Scent the rich balm of India's perfumed gaies, 
In citron woods and aromatic vales : 
For O ! fair Liberty, when thou art near, 
Elysium blossoms in the desert drear ! 

Where'er thy smile its magic power bestow* 
There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows 
The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, 
And every chord to swelling transport lives , 
There ardent Genius Dids the pencil trace 
The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace , 
With bold Promethean hand, the canvas warms, 
And calls from stone expression's breathing 

forms. 
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o'eixlows its boiui(3, 
Its genial waves diff"use abundance round. 
Bid Ceres laugh o'er Avaste and sterile sands, 
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands 

Immortal Freedom I daughter of the skies ! 
To thee shall Britain's grateful incense rise. 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



rhou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, 
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel ! 
Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans 

brave. 
Hold in the iield, triumphant on the wave ; 
In classic elegance and arts divine, 
To rival Athens' fairest palm is thine ; 
For taste and fancy from Hj-mettus liy. 
And richer bloom bsneath thy varying sky, 
Wnera Science mounts in radiant car sublime 
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time ! 
Hail, Albion, hail ! to thee has fate denied 
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan's pride, 
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast, 
And all the wealth of Montezuma's coast : 
For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine, 
No glowing suns mature the blushing vine ; 
No light Arabian gales their wings expand, 
To waft Sabsean incense o'er the land ; 
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills, 
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils ; 
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows. 
And far from thee the scented cassia blows : 
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne, 
Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own ; 
From Lapland's shore to Afric's fervid reign. 
She bids thy ensigns float above the main ; 
Unfurls her streamers to the t'avoring gale. 
And shows to other worlds her daring sail : 
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to 

thee. 
Queen of the trident ! empress of the sea ! 

For this thy noble sons have spread alarms. 
And bade the zones resound with Britain's 

arms ! 
Calpe's proud rock, and Syria's palmy shore. 
Have heard and trembled at their battle's roar ; 
The sacred waves of fertilizing Nile 
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle ; 
For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war 
Has rolled o'er Vincent's cape and Trafalgar! 
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder's sound, 
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crowned ; 
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain, 
To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main ! 
The milder emblems of the virtues calm — 
The poet's verdant bay, the sage's palm — 
These in thy laurel's blooming foliage twine, 
And roimd thy brows a deathless wreath com- 
bine : 
bfot Mincio's banks, nor Melcs' classic tide, 
Are hallowed more than Avon's haunted side ; 
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme 
Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber's stream. 



Bright in the annals of th' impartial I age, 
Britannia's heroes live from age to age ! 
From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race 
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase. 
Free from all cares for luxury or gahi, 
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the piain 
To these Augustan days, when social art* 
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts ; 
From doubtful Arthur — hero of romance. 
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance -• 
To those whose recent trophies grace her shield, 
The gallant victors of Vimeira's held ; 
Still have her w^arriors borne th' unfading crown. 
And made the British flag the ensign of renown. 

Spirit of Alfred ! patriot soul sublime ! 
Thou morning star of error's darkest time ! 
Prince of the Lion heart ! w'hose arm in fight 
On Syria's plains repelled Saladin's might ! 
Edward ! for bright heroic deeds revered. 
By Cressy's fame to Britain still endeared ! 
Triumphant Henry ! thou, whose valor proud, 
The lofty plume of crested Gallia bowed ! 
Look down, look doAvn, exalted shades ! and 

view 
Your Albion still to freedom's banner true ' 
Behold the land, ennobled by your fame, 
Supreme in glory, and of spotless name 
And, as the pyramid indignant rears 
Its awful head, and mocks the Avaste of years ; 
See her secure in pride of virtue tower. 
While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power 

Lo ! where her pennons, -waving high, aspire. 
Bold Victory hovers near, ** with eyes of fire ! ' 
While Lusitania hails, with just applause. 
The brave defenders of her injured cause ; 
Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise. 
And swells th' exulting paean to the skies ! 

And they, who late with anguish, hard to teu. 
Breathed to their cherished realms a sad faie- 

well ! 
"WTio, as the vessel bore them o'er the tide. 
Still fondly lingered on its deck, and sighed ; 
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight 
And the blue distance melted into light — 
The royal exiles, forced by Gallia's hate 
To fly for refuge in a foreign state — 
They, soon returning o'er the western mahi, 
Ere long may view their clime beloved again ; 
And as the blazing pillar led the host 
Of faithful Israel o'er the desert coast. 
So may Britannia guide the noble band 
O'er the wild ocean to their native land. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



His victor arm Alphonso's throne maintained, 
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest 

gained ! 
And 8till his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, 
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse ! 
High in the temple of recording fame, 
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo's name ! 
Victorious chief ! whose valor still defied 
The arms of Gaul, and bowed her crested pride ; 
With splendid trophies graced his sovereign's 

throne, 
And bade Granada's realms his prowess own. 
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain ! 
In mighty Ferdinand's illustrious reign ; 
'Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail. 
Unfurled his flag before the eastern gale ; 
Bold, sanguine, feiurless, ventured to explore 
Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. 
Fair science guided o'er the liquid realm. 
Sweet hope, exulting, steered the daring helm ; 
While on the mast, with ardor- flashing eye, 
Courageous enterprise still hovered nigh : 
The hoary genius of th' Atlantic main 
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign — 
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued, 
The throne, the. world of awful solitude. 
And e'en when shipwreck seemed to rear his 

form. 
And dark destruction menaced in the storm ; 
In every shape when giant peril rose, 
To daunt his spirit and his course oppose ; 
O'er every heart when terror swayed alone, 
And hope forsook each bosom but his own ; 
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repelled, 
His glorious track the gallant sailor held ; 
Attentive still to mark the sea birds lave. 
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave. 
Th\is princely Jason, launching from the steep. 
With dauntless prow explored th' untravelled 

deep ; 
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses' watchful sight 
Vie^^'ed every star and planetary light. 
Sublime Columbus I when, at length descried, 
The long-sought laud arose above the tide. 
How every heart with exultation glowed. 
How from each eye the tear of transport flowed ! 
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew 
When Canaan's fertile plains appeared in view. 
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze. 
Then martial music floated o'er the seas ; 
Their waving streamers to the sun displayed. 
In all the pride of warlike pomp arrayed. 
A.dvancing nearer still, the ardent band 
Hailed the glad shore, and blessed the stranger 

land ; 



Admu'ed its palmy groves and prospects fair, 
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air j 
Then crowded round its free and simple race. 
Amazement pictured wild on every face ; 
Who deemed that beings of celestial birth, 
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth 
Then first another world, another sky, 
Beheld Iberia's banner blaze on high ! 

Still prouder glories beam on history's page, 
Imperial Charles ! to mark thy prosperous age 
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright. 
When Science poured her mild, refidgent light 
When Painting bade the glowing CRnvai 

breathe. 
Creative Sculpture claimed the living wreath 
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers. 
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers ; 
When angel trutii dispersed, with beam divine, 
The clouds that veiled religion's hallowed shrine 
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower 
High on the pyramid of fame and power ; 
Vain all the efl'orts of her numerous foes. 
Her might, superior still, triumphant rose. 
Thus on proud Lebanon's exalted brow. 
The cedar, frowning o'er the plains below. 
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend, 
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e'er to bend 

When Gallia poured to Pavia's trophied plain 
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train 
When, after many a toil and danger past, 
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last ; 
That morning saw her glittering host combine, 
And form in close array the threatening line ; 
Fire in each eye, and force in every arm, 
With hope exulting, and with ardor warm ; 
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, 
Their armor flashing to the beam of day ; 
Their generous chargers panting, spurn the 

ground, 
Bloused by the trumpet's animating sound ; 
And heard in air their warlike music float, 
The martial pipe, the drum's inspiring note ! 

Pale set the sun — the shades of evening fell< 
The mournful night wind rung their funeral 

knell; 
And the same day beheld their warriors dead, 
Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled 1 
Fled, like the lightning's evanescent fire, 
Bright, blazing, dreadful — only to expire ! 
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confessed he 

might, 
Iberia's planet shed meridian light ! 




AiitiiTnii 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



b, 



Nor less, on famed St. Quintin's deathful day, 
Castilian spirit bore the prize away — 
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, 
And trophies beaming high in glory's fane ! 
And lo ! her heroes, warm with kindred flame. 
Still proudly emulate their fathers' fame ; 
Still Mith tne soul of patriot valor glow, 
Still rush impetuous to repel the foe ; 
Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear. 
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear ! 
13e theirs, be theirs unfading honor's crown, 
The living amaranths of bright renown ! 
Be theirs th' inspiring tribute of applause, 
Due to the champions of their country's cause ! 
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves. 
The joy when conscience whispers and approves ! 
When every heart is fired, each pulse beats 

high. 
To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty ; 
When every hand is dauntless and prepared 
The sacred charter of mankind to guard ; 
When Britain's valiant sons their aid unite, 
Fervent and glowing still for freedom's right. 
Bid ancient enmities forever cease. 
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. 
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, 
Can vpnal slaves their conquering arms with- 
stand ? 
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless r 
Can victory fail to crown them with success ? 
Look down, O Heaven ! the righteous cause 

maintain, 
defend the injured, and avenge the slain ! 
Despot of France ! destroyer of mankind ! 
What spectre cares must haunt thy sleepless 

mind ! 
O, if at midnight round thy regal bed, 
When soothing visions fly thine aching head ; 
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm. 
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm ; 
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise, 
And murdered victims bleed before thine eyes ; 
Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, 
** Tyrant ! the hour, th' avenging hour is near ! " 
It is, it is ! thy star with4raws its ray — 
Soon will its parting lustre fade away ; 
Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light. 
And veil thy splendors in eternal night ! 
0, when accusing conscience wakes thy soul 
With awful terrors and with dread control. 
Bids threatening forms, appalling, round thee 

stand. 
And summons all her visionary band ; 
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead , 
\nd whispers, peace and happiness are fled ; 



E'en at the time of silence and of rest, 
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast ; 
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale r 
Then dost thou tremble, does tliy spirit fail r 
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provokt 
The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke r 
Bereave a nation of its rights revered. 
Of all to morals sacred and endeared ? 
And shall they tamely liberty resign, 
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine ? 
Canst thou, supreme destroyer ! hope to bind, 
In chains of adamant, the noble mind ? 
Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear — 
Go, stay the lightning in its winged career I 
No, tyrant ! no ! thy utmost force is vain 
The patriot arm of freedom to restrain. 
Then bid thy subject bands in armor shine, 
Then bid thy legions all their power combine ! 
Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command. 
Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand. 
E'en then her soul thy lawless might would 

spurn, 
E'en then, with kindling fire, with indignation 

burn ! 

Ye sons of Albion ! first in danger's field. 
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield ! - 
Still prompt the injured to defend and save 
Appall the despot, and assist the brave ; 
Who noAV intrepid lift the generous blade. 
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid ! 
Ye sons of Albion ! by your country's name 
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame ; 
O, by the shades of Cressy's martial dead. 
By warrior bands at Agincourt who bled , 
By honors gained on Blenheim's fatal plain. 
By those in Victory's arms at Minden slain ; 
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won. 
Undaunted spirit ! valor's favorite son ! 
By Albion's thousand, thousand deeds sublime 
Renowned from zone to zone, from clime tt 

clime; 
Ye British heroes ! may your trophies raise 
A deathless monument to future days ! 
O, may your courage still triumphant ris 
Exalt the '• lion banner " to the skies ! 
Transcend the fairest names in history's pagw, 
The brightest actions of a former age ; 
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore. 
And bid oppression fall — to rise no more ! 
Then soon returning to your native isle, 
May love and beauty hail you with their smile 
For you may conquest weave th' undying w reath 
And fame and glory's voice the song of raptur« 
breathe ' 



i>y 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Ah ! when shall mad ambition cease to 



ragei 



Ah ! M'lien shall -vvar his demon wrath assuage ? 
When, when, supplanting discord's iron reign, 
Shall mercy wave her olive wand again ? 
N'ot till the despot's dread career is closed, 
\nd might restrained and tyranny deposed ! 

Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign ! 
Fair blue-eyed seraph ! balmy power divine ! 
Descend once more ! thy hallowed blessings 

bring. 
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy 

wing ! 
Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train. 
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert 

plain : 
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, 
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray. 
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky ! 
Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye ; 
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, 
Thy myrtle sceptre o'er the globe extend : 
riiy cherub look again shall soothe mankind, 
Thy cherub hand the wounds of discord bind ; 
Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire. 
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. 
Descend once more ! to bid the world rejoice — 
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice, 
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng, 
Weave the fresb palm, and swell the choral 

song ! 
Then shall the shepherd's flute, the woodland 

reed. 
The martial clarion and the drum succeed ; 
Again shall bloom Arcadia's fairest flowers, 
And music warble in Idalian bowers. 
Where war and carnage blcAV the blast of death, 
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath ; 
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain. 
Where the wild combat reddened o'er the plain. 
These are thy blessings, fair, benignant maid ! 
Return, return, in vest of light arrayed ! 
Let angel forms and floating sylphids bear 
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air ; 
With accents milder than ^olian lays, 
VMxen o'er the harp the fanning zephyr plays. 
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest. 
Diffusing round the heaven that glows within 

thy breast ! 

O Thou ! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep ! 
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep ! 
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's 

force, 
Ard stays the thunder in its vengeful course ; 



Fountain of life ! Omnipotent Supreme ! 
Robed in perfection ! crowned with glory' 

beam! 
O, send on earth thy consecrated dove, 
To bear the sacred olive from above ; 
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, 
The festal harmony of nature's prime ! 
Bid truth and justice once again appear. 
And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane 

sphere ; 
Bright in their path, let -wreaths unfading bloom, 
Transcendent light their hallowed fane illume , 
Bid war and anarchy forever cease, 
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace ; 
Brothers once more, let men her empire own. 
And realms and monarchs benji before thf 

throne. 
While circling rays of angel mercy shed 
Eternal haloes round her sainted head ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONb, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

[In 1812, another and inuch smaller volume, entitled Thi 
Domestic Affections, and other Poems, was given to tlic 
world — the last that was to appear with the name of Fe- 
licia Browne ; for, in the summer of the same year, it- 
author exchanged that appellation for the one under wh'( !i 
she has become so much more generally known. Captaiji 
Hemans had returned to Wales in the preceding year, when 
the acquaintance was renewed which had begun so long 
before at Gwiych ; and as the sentiments then mutually 
awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition was 
made to a union, on which (however little in accordan-.t 
with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of bo A 
parties seemed so entirely to depend. — Memoir, p 9>* i 

THE SILVER LOCKS. 

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FEIEKD. 

Though youth may boast the curls that flow 

In sunny waves of auburn glow , 
As graceful on thy hoary head 
Has Time the robe of honor spread, 
And there, O, softly, softly shed 
His wreath of snow ! 

As frostwork on the trees displu Ted, 
When weeping Flora leaves the shade, 
E'en more than Flora, charms the sight 
E'en so thy locks of purest white 
Survive, in age's frostwork bright. 
Youth's vernal rose decayed! 



THK DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. C3 


To grace the nymph whose tresses play 


To banish every weed and thorn 


Light on the sportive breeze of May, 


That oft opposed her tcil ! 


Let other bards the garland twine, 




Where sweets of every hue combine ; 


And 0, if e'er I sighed to claim 


Those locks revered, that silvery shine, 


The palm, the living palm of fame. 


Invite my lay ! 


The glowing wreath of praise ; 




If e'er I wished the glittering stores 


Less white the summer cloud sublime. 


That Fortune on her favorite pours ; 


Less white the Asinter's fringing rime ; 


'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine. 


Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem 


Round thee with streaming rays might shiim 


(A Poet's blest immortal theme) 


And gild thy sun-bright days ! 


Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam 




Of reverend Time ! 


Yet not that splendor, pomp, and power 




Might then irradiate every hour ; 


Long may the graceful honors smile, 


For these, my mother ! well I know. 


Like moss on some declining pile ; 


On thee no raptures could bestow ; 


much revered ! may filial care 


But could thy bounty, warm and kind, 


Around thee, duteous, long repair. 


Be, like thy wishes, unconjined, 


Thy joys with tender bliss to share. 


And fall as manna from the skies, 


Thy pains beguile ! 


And bid a train of blessings rise. 


• 


Difl'using joy and peace ; 


Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave ! 


The tear drop, grateful, pure, and bright, 


Long, long, your much-loved beauty save ! 


For thee would beam with softer light 


May bliss your latest evening crown. 


Than all the diamond's crystal rays. 


Disarm life's winter of its frown. 


Than aU the emerald's lucid blaze ; 


And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down 


And joys of heaven would thrill thy heait 


In gladness to the grave ! 


To bid one bosom grief depart. 




One tear, one sorrow cease ! 


And as the parting beams of day 




On mountain snows reflected play. 


Then, 0, may Heaven, that loves to bless. 


And tints of roseate lustre shed; 


Bestow the power to cheer distress • 


Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head, 


Make thee its minister below. 


May joy, with evening planet, shed 


To light the cloudy path of woe , 


His mildest ray ! 


To visit the deserted ceU, 


Vugust 18, 1809. 


Where indigence is doomed to dwell ; 




To raise, when drooping to the earth, 




The blossoms of neglected worth ; 




And round, with liberal hand, dispense 




The sunshine of beneficence ! 


TO MY MOTHER. 


But ah ! if Fate should still deny 




Delights like these, too rich and high ; 


If e'er from human bliss or woe 


If grief and pain thy steps assail, 


I feel the sympathetic glow ; 


In life's remote and wintry vale ; 


If e'er my heart has learned to know 


Then, as the wild iEolian lyre 


The generous wish or prayer ; 


Complains with soft entrancing number, 


Who sowed the germ with tender hand ? 


When the lone storm awakes the wire, 


Who marked its infant leaves expand r 


And bids enchantment ceast to slumbei 


My mother's fostering care. 


So filial love, with soothing voice. 


And if one flower of charms refined 


E'en then shall teach thee to rejoice ; 


May grace the garden of my mind. 


E'en then shall sweeter, milder sound, 


'Twas she who nursed it there : 


W^hen sorrow's tempest raves around ; 


She loved to cherish and adorn 


While dark misfortune's gales destroy 


Each blossom of the soil ; 


The frail mimosa buds of hope and joy 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER, 

OW HIS SETCEN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT 
UHDEB SIR JOHX MOORE, AXD TUE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the 
hours, 
Tkougli life is a desert, and cheerless the 
way, 
Yet still shall affection adorn it \vith flowers, 
Whose fragrance shall never decay ! 

Lnd lo ! to embrace thee, my Brother ! she flies, 
With artless delight, that no words can be- 
speak ; 

With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, 
With a smile and a glow on her cheek ! 

From the trophies of war, from the spear and 
the shield. 
From scenes of destruction, from perils un- 
blest ; . 
0, welcome again, to the grove and the field. 
To the vale of retirement and rest. 

Then warble, sweet muse ! with the lyre and 
the voice, 

O, gay be the measure and sportive the strain ; 
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice 

To meet thee, my Brother ! again. 

When tlie heroes of Albion, still valiant and true. 
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory 
crowned, 

flow often would fancy present to my view 
The horrors that waited thee round ! 

How constant, hov fervent, how pure was my 
prayer, 
That Heaven would protect thee from danger 
and harm ; 
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care. 
In the heat of the combat's alarm ! 

Ro^^ sad and how often descended the tear, 
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image re- 
tain !) 
flow mournful the sigh, when I trembled with 
fear 
I might never behold thee again ! 

Rut the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er, 
And the tear drop is fled, like the dew on the 
rose ; 



Thy dangers, our tears, have endeared thee th« 
more. 
And my bosom with tenderness glows 

And O, when the dreams, the enchan''ments of 
youth, 
Bright and transient, have fled like Uie rain- 
bow away ; 
My aff'ection for thee, still unfading in truth, 
Shall never, O, never decay ! 

No time can impair it, no change can destroy, 
WHiate'er be the lot I am destined to share , 

It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joj 
And beam through the cloud of despair ! 



TO MY ELDEST BROTHER. 

(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IX PORTCOAL.) 

How many a day, in various hues arrayed, 
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed witl 

shade. 
How many an hour on silent wing is past, 
O my loved Brother ! since we saw thee last ! 
Since then has childhood ripened into youth. 
And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth 
Her splendid fabrics melting into air, 
As sage experience waved the wand of care ! 
Y'et still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, 
And the tear trembles in affection's eye ! 
When shall we meet again ? with glowing raj, 
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day ; 
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting 

tear, 
And sings benignly still — that day is near ! 
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, 
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice ; 
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore 
Our cherished wanderer to his home once more; 
W^here sacred ties his manly worth endear, 
To faith still true, affection still sincere ! 
Then the past woes, the future's dubious lot. 
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot ! 
And joy's fuU radiance gild that sun-bright 

hour. 
Though all around th' impending storm shou'd 

lower. 

Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host, 
Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast, 
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, 
Where glory's polestar beams their constant 
guide,) 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. ai 


Bay, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray 


E'en noio, the fair, the good, the true. 


To Cambria's vaics and mountains far away ? 


From mortal sight concealed. 


Does fancy oft in busy day dreams roam, 


Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, 


And paint the greeting that awaits at home ? 


In light revealed 1 


Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue, 




Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; 


K here the lore of distant time, 


In softer tints delighting to retrace 


And learning's flowers, were all thine own 


Each tender image aid ra;}. wei.-known face ? 


How must thy mind ascend sublime, 


Yes, wanderer ! yes ! thy spirit flies to those 


Matured in heaven's empyreal clime. 


Whose love, unaltered, warm and faithful glows. 


To light's unclouded throne ! 




Perhaps e'en note thy kindling glance 


0, could that love, through life's eventful 


Each orb of living fire explores, 


hours, 


Darts o'er creation's wide expanse. 


niume thy scenes and strew thy path with 


Admires — adores ! 


flowers ! 




Perennial joy should harmonize thy breast, 


0, if that lightning eye surveys 


No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest ! 


This dark and sublunary plain ; 


But though our tenderness can but bestow 


How must the wreath of human praise 


The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe. 


Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, 


Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame, 


So dim, so pale, so vain ! 


In storms, in sunshine, far and near — the same ! 


How, like a faint and shadovvj- dream, 


Still dwell enthroned within th' unvarying heart. 


Must quiver learning's brightest ray ; 


And, firm and vital, but with life depart ! 


While on thine eyes, with lucid stream. 


Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 18J1. 


The sun of glory pours his beam, 




Perfection's day ! 




[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mis 


LINES 


Hemans with the niatiirer ones on the same subject bv Pro 




fessor Wilson. — Poems, vol, ii. pp. HO-9.1 


♦fKITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH. 




THOU ! whose pure, exalted mind, 




Lives in this record, fair and bright ; 




thou ! whose blameless life combined 


THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS. 


Soft female charms, and grace refined. 




With science and with light ! 


Sweets of the wild ! that breathe and bloorr 


Celestial maid ! whose spirit soared 


On this lone tower, this ivied wall. 


Beyond this vale of tears — 


Lend to the gale a rich perfume, 


■Whose clear, enlightened eye explored 


And grace the ruin in its fall. 


The lore of years ! 


Though doomed, remote from careless eye, 




To smile, to flourish, and to die 


Daughter of Heaven ! if here, e'en here, 


In solitude sublime. 


The wing of towering thought was thine ; 


0, ever may the spring renew 


If, on this dim and mundane sphere, 


Your balmy scent and glowing hue, 


Fair truth illumed thy bright career, 


To deck the robe of time ! 


With morning star divine ; 




How must thy blessed ethereal soul 


Breathe, fragrance ! breathe ! enrich the air 


Now kindle in her noontide ray, 


Though wasted on its wing unknown ! 


And hail, unfettered by control, 


Blow, flowerets ! blow ! though vainly fair. 


The Fount of Day ! 


Neglected and alone ! 




These flowers that long withstood the blast. 


E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, 


These mossy towers, are mouldering fast, 


TJndimmed by doubt, nor veiled by fear, 


While Flora's children stay — 


Behold a chain of wonders rise — 


To mantle o'er the lonely pile. 


Gaze on the noonbeam of the skies, 


To gild Destruction with a smile, 


Transcendent, pure, and clear ! 


And beautify Decav ! 



la JUVENIL 


E POEMS. 


Sweets of the -wild ! uncultured blowing, 


And Silence, deep and awful, reign 


Neglected in luxuriance glowing ; 


WTiere echoed once the choral strain ; 


From the dark ruins frowning near, 


Yet oft, dark ruin ! lingering here. 


Your charms in brighter tints appear, 


The Muse will hail thee with a tear ; 


And richer blush assume ; 


Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams 


You smile with softer beauty crowned, 


And through the fringing ivy streair^. 


Whilst all is desolate around. 


And softens every shade sublime. 


Like sunshine on a tomb ! 


And mellows every tint of Time — 




0, here shall Contemplation love. 


Thoti hoary pile, majestic still, 


Unseen and undisturbed, to rove ; 


Memento of departed fame ! 


And bending o'er some mossy tomb. 


While roving o'er the moss-clad hill, 


Where Yalor sleeps or Beauties bloom, 


I ponder on thine ancient name ! 


Shall weep for Glory's transient day 




And Grandeur's evanescent ray ; 


Here Grandeur, Beauty, Yalor sleep, 


And listening to the swelling blast, | 


That here, so oft, have shone supreme ; 


Shall wake the Spirit of the Past ! 


While Glory, Honor, Fancy, weep 


Call up the forms of ages fled. 


That vanished is the golden dream ! 


Of warriors and of minstrels dead. 




Who sought the field, who struck the lyre. 


Where are the banners, waving proud, 


With all Ambition's kindling fire ! 


To kiss the summer gale of even — 




All purple as the morning cloud, 


Nor wilt thou. Spring ! refuse to breathe 


All streaming to the winds of heaven ? 


Soft odors on this desert air ; 




Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath. 


Where is the harp, by rapture strung 


And fringe these towers with garlands fail ' 


To melting song or martial story ? 




Where are the lays the minstrel sung 


Sweets of the wild, 0, ever bloom 


To loveliness or glory ? 


Unheeded on this ivied waU ! 




Lend to the gale a rich perfume, 


Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, 


And grace the ruin in its fall ! 


To thee no festal measure calls ; 




No music through the desert haUs 


Thus round Misfortune's holy head, 


Awakes thee to rejoice ! 


Would Pity wreaths of honor spread ; 


How still thy sleep ! as death profound — 


Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, 


As if, within this lonely round, 


She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile \ 


A step — a note — a xoliispered sound 




Had ne'er aroused thy voice ! 






CHRISTMAS CAROL. 


Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, djing, 




Thou hear'st the foliage weaving, sighing ; 


Fair Gratitude ! in strain sublime, 


But ne'er again shall harp or song, 


Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal ; 


These dark deserted com-ts along. 


And, hailing this auspicious time, 


Disturb thy calm repose. 


Kneel, Adoration ! kneel ! 


ITie harp is broke, the song is fled. 




rhe voice is hushed, the bard is dead ; 


CHORUS. 


And never shall thy tones repeat 


For lo ! the day, th' immortal day. 


Or lofty strain or carol sweet 


When Mercy's full, benignant ray 


With plaintive close ! 


Chased every gathering cloud away, 




And poured the noon of light ! 


Proud Castle ! though the days are flown 


Rapture ! bo kindling, mounting, glowing 


When once thy towers in glory shone ; 


While from thine eye the tear is flowing. 


When music through thy turrets rung. 


Pure, warm, and bright ! 


When banners o'er thy ramparts hung, 




Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone, 


'Twas on this day — 0, love divine ! - 


<tern Desolation rear his throne : 


The Orient Star's cff"ulsen'e roaa : 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



&• 



Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign 
Shall never, never close ! 

CHORUS. 

Messiah ! be thy name adored. 

Eternal, high, redeeming Lord ! 

By grateful wields be anthems poured — 

Emanuel. Prince of Peace ! 
This day, from heaven's empyreal dwelling. 
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling, 

Uade discord cease ! 

Wake the loud paean, tune the voice. 
Children of heaven and sons of earth ! 

Seraphs and men ! exult, rejoice, 
To bless the Savior's birth ! 

CHORUS. 

Devotion ! light thy purest fire ! 
Transport ! on cherub wing aspire ! 
Praise ! wake to Him thy golden lyre, 

Strike every thrilling chord ! 
\\'liile at the Ark of Mercy kneeling. 
We own thy grace, reviving, healing, 

Kcdeemer ! Lord ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, 
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven ? 
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud dif- 
fuse 
Their tempered sunshine and celestial hues ? 
Those pure delights, ordained on life to throw 
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know ? 
Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne. 
When kneeling myriads call the world his own ? 
Or dwell with Luxury, in th' enchanted bowers 
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers ? 

Favored of heaven ! O Genius ! are they thine, 
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory 

shine ; 
W hile rapture gazes on thy radiant way, 
'^lidst the bright realms of clear and mental day ? 
No ! sacred joys ! 'tis yours to dwell enshrined, 
Most fondly cherished, in the purest mind ; 
To twine with flowers those loved, endearing 

ties. 
On earth so sweet — so perfect in the skies ! 

Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade, 
fhe violet smiles, imbt>s)mfed in the glade ; 



There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, 
Gem of seclusion ! treasure of tlic vale ! 
Thus, far retired from life's tumultuous road. 
Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode 
Where hallowed Innocence and sweet Repose 
May strew her shadowy path with many * 

rose 
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky . 
The cherub. Infancy, can close its eye. 
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, 
While viewless angels wave their pinions nesi ; 
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll, 
Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole. 
While War's red lightnings desolate the bali. 
And thrones and empires in destruction fall ; 
Then calm as evening on the silvery wavs, 
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave, 
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest. 
Her empire Home ! — her throne, Affection's 

breast ! 

For her, sweet Nature wears her lovelies' 

blooms. 
And softer sunshine every scene illumes, 
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze. 
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas 
When Summer, waving her creative wand. 
Bids verdure smile, and glowing ftfe expand ; 
Or Autumn's pencil sheds, with magic trace. 
O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace ; 
O, stiU for her, through Nature's boundle^p 

reign, 
No charm is lost, no beauty bloo ns in vain ; 
While mental peace, o'er every prospect bright, 
Throws mellowing tints and harmonizing light ! 
Lo ! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublim*^. 
Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime, 
Triumphant waves his signal torch on high, 
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky ! 
And high through darkness rears his giant form, 
His throne the biUow, and his flag the storm ! 
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no moit, 
And the wild surges foam along the shore, 
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene, 
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle gre«n ! 
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade — 
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the si ide ! 
Clear through the day, her light around tht-<j 

glOAVS, 

And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose ! 
— Hail, sacred Home! where soft Afl'ectiori 

hand 
With flowers of Eden tvdnes her magic band ! 
Where pure and bright the social ard 5rs n»e, 
Concentring all their h( liest energies ! 



94 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



When wasting toil has dimmed the vital flame, 
And every power deserts the sinking frame, 
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores 
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores ! 
Thus, when oppressed with rude, tumultuous 

cares, 
To thee, sweet Home ! the fainting mind repairs ; 
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, 
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies ! 

Bower of repose ! when, torn from all we love, 
Through toil we struggle, or through distance 

rove ; 
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar — 
Thee, our bright vista ! thee, our magnet star ! 
And from the martial field, the troubled sea, 
unfettered thought still roves to bliss and thee ! 

When ocean sounds in awful slumber die. 
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh ; 
Wide o'er the world when Peace and Midnight 

reign, 
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main ; 
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, 
'Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep ! 
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound. 
All heaven — ar>.d sea — and solitude — around ! 
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm. 
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm. 
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, 
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, 
Wings like a meteor flash her swift career, 
To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear ! 

Lo ! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave. 
And Danger frowns — the monarch of the wave ! 
Lo rocks and storms the striving bark repel. 
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming 
swell ! 

Child of the ocean ! is thy bier the surge, 
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge ? 
Yes ! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o'er, • 
No Ftorm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more ! 
Yet, in that solemn hour, that a-\vful strife, 
The struggling agony for death or life. 
E'en then thy mind, imbittering every pain. 
Retraced the image so beloved — in vain ! 
Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, 
Life's parting sigh — the murmur of adieu ! 

Can war's dread scenes the hallowed ties 
eff'ace, 
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance 
chase ? 



Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy 
The loved impression of domestic joy -* 

Ye daylight dreams ! that cheer the soldiei p 

breast, 
In hostile climes, Avith spells benign and blest ; 
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing 

ray 
O'er the long march through Desolation's way , 
O, still ye bear him trom th' ensanguined plain, 
Armor's bright flash, and Victory's choral strain. 
To that ]oved Home where pure afl"ection glows, 
That shrine of bliss ! asylum of repose ! 
When all is hushed — the rage of combat past, 
And no dread war note swells the moaning 

blast ; 
When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er. 
And many an eye is closed to wake no more , 
Lulled by the night wind, pillowed on tlic 

ground, 
(The dewy death bed of his comrades round !) 
While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep 
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep ! 
E'en then, soft visions, hovering round, poi 

tray 
The cherished forms that o'er his bosom sway ; 
He sees fond transport light each beaming face, 
Meets the warm tear drop and the long embrace ' 
While the sweet welcome vibrates through \\\f 

heart, 
*• Hail, weary soldier ! — never more to part ! " 

And lo ! at last, released from every toil. 
He comes ! the wanderer views his native soil 
Then the bright raptures words can never speak 
Flash in his eye and mantle o'er his cheek ! 
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing 

prayer 
Implored for him each guardian spirit's care ; 
Who, for his fate, through soi row's lingering 

year. 
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and 

fear ; 
In that blest moment, all the past forget — 
Hours of suspense and "vigils of regret ! 

And O, for him, the child of rude alarms, 
Reared by stern dfmger in the school of arms » 
How sweet to change the war song's pcalinp 

note 
For woodland sounds in summer air that float ' 
Through vales of peace, o'ei mountain wilds t • 

roam. 
And breathe his native gales, that whi»p«T - 

*♦ Home ! " 



THE DOMESTIC AFFEC TIONS. 



00 



Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, 
Charms of existence ! angel sympathies ! 
ITiough Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen ! 
A-nd guide her votaries through a fairj^ scene. 
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours 
With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers ; 
Though gazing nations hail tlie fiery car 
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar. 
While Fame's loud paean bids his heart rejoice, 
And every life pulse vibrates to her voice ; 
Yet from your soiirce alone, in mazes bright, 
Flows the full current of serene delight ! 

On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores, 
Through reabns of space, th' aspiring eagle soars ! 
Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire, 
Meridian glory — on her throne of fire ! 
Bird of the Sun ! his keen unwearied gaze 
Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze ; 
But soon, descending from his height sublime, 
Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal 

clime, 
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly 

blest. 
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest ! 

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career 
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, 
vnd proudly waving in his gifted hand. 
O'er Fancy's worlds. Invention's plastic wand. 
Fearless and firm, with lightning eye surveys 
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays ! 
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend. 
And kindling rapturer. aid him to ascend, 
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur 

fraught, 
Dilate the noblest energies of thought ;) 
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined. 
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, 
At length he flies, to that serene retreat. 
Where calm and pure the mild affections meet ; 
tmbosomed there, to feel and to impart 
Llie softer pleasures of the social heart ! 

Ah ! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, 
From every tie by fate relentless torn ; 
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle. 
Marked with no step, uncheered by human 

smile, 
Heartsick and faint the shipwrecked wanderer 

stand, 
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand ! 
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main. 
And weep — and pray — and linger — but in 

vain ! 



Thence, roving wild through many a depth 
of shade. 
Where voice ne'er echoed, footstep never strayed. 
He fondly seeks, o'er cliffs and deserts rude. 
Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude ! 
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone 
The wood's deep sigh, the surge's distant moan 
All else is hushed ! so silent, so profound. 
As if some viewless power, presiding round, 
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath. 
Had spread for ages the repose of death ! 
Ah ! stni the wanderer, by the boundless deej; . 
Lives but to watch — and watches but to weep 
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, 
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies . 
Far from his cherished friends, his native shore, 
Banished from being — to return no more ; 
There must he die ! — within that circling wave, 
That lonely isle — his prison and his grave ! 

Lol through the waste, the wilderness of 

snows, 
With faintmg step, Siberia's exile goes ! 
Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild, 
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled ; 
Where frost and silence hold their despol 

reign, 
And bind existence in eternal chain ! 
Child of the desert ! pilgrim of the gloom ! 
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb! 
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air 
Congeals the bitter tear drop of despair ! 
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day 
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray ; 
Not that fair nature's loveliness and light 
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight 
Ah ! not for this — far, far beyond relief, 
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief ; 
But that no friend of kindred heart is there, 
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share ; 
That no mild soother fondly shaU assuage 
The stormy trials of thy lingering age ; 
No smile of tenderness, with angel power. 
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour ; 
For this alone, despair, a withering guest. 
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast ! 
Y''es ! there, e'en there, in that tremendous clime 
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime ; 
Where winter triumphs, throiigh the polar nignt, 
In all his vnld magnificence of might ; 
E'en there, affection's hallowed spell might pom 
The light of heaven around th' inclement shore I 
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine 

graced, 
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced- 



56 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, 
E'en 'midst the world of solitude and snow ! 
The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions 

feign, 
With mystic power could tranquillize the main ; 
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep, 
A.nd peace and silence brood upon the deep ! 

And thus. Affection, can ihij voice compose 
rhe storm)^ tide of passions and of woes ; 
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease. 
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace ! 

O, mark yon drooping form, of aged mien. 
Wan, yet resigned, and hopeless, yet serene ! 
Long ere \Tlctorious time had sought to chase 
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face. 
That faded eye was dimmed with many a care. 
Those waving locks were silvered by despair ! 
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm. 
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm ! 
He, a sad emigrant ! condemned to roam 
In life's pale autumn from his ruined home, 
Has borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave, 
Where joy — and hope — and fortune — found 

a grave ! 
'Twas his to see Destruction's fiercest band 
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, 
And roll triumphant on their blasted "way, 
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay ! 
Unequal combat raged on many a plain. 
And patriot valor waved the sword in vain ! 
All ! gallant exile ! nobly, long, he bled. 
Long braved the tempest gathering o'er his 

head ! 
Till all was lost! and horror's darkened eye 
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die ! 

Ah ! gallant exile ! in the storm that rolled 
Far o'er his country, rushing uncontrolled. 
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest 

bloom, 
Tom by the blast, -were scattered on the tomb ! 
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife, 
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life. 
Yet one was spared ! anvl she, whose filial smile 
Can soothe his Avanderings and his tears "beguile, 
E'en then could temper, with divine relief. 
The wild delirium of unbounded grief; 
And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art 
Her ow 11 deep sorrows in her inmost heart ! 
And now, though time, subduing every trace, 
Has melloiced all, he tievo' can erase ; 
Oft wiL the wanderer's tears in silence flow, 
^till sadly faithful to remembered w^oe I 



Then she, who feels a father's pang alone, 

(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) 

With anxious tenderness is ever nigh. 

To chase the image that awakes the sigh ! 

Her angel voice his fainting soul can raise 

To brighter visions of celestial days ! 

And speak of realms, where Virtue's wing shall 

soar 
On eagle plume — to wonder and adore ; 
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last, 
Unite their kindred souls — and smile on aU the 

past! 

Yes ! we may hope that nature's deathless ties, 
Renewed, refined, shall triumph in the skies ! 
Heart-soothing thought ! whose loved, consoling 

powers 
With seraph dreams can gild reflection's hours, 
O, still be near, and brightening through the 

gloom. 
Beam and ascend ! the daystar of the tomb ! 
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved. 
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. 

Lo ! by the couch where pain and chill disease 
In every vein the ebbing lifeblood freeze ; 
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, 
Life's closing lesson — in its dawning day ; 
Where beauty's rose is withering ere its prime, 
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoiled by time ; 
There, bending still, with fixed and sleepless eye, 
There, from her cliild, the mother learns to die ; 
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace 
Of lingering sickness in the faded face ; 
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled* 
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer's bed ; 
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare 
The sjDoiler's hand — the blight of death is there J 
He comes ! now feebly in the exhatisted frame, 
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame; 
From the glazed eyeball sheds its parting ray — 
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away 5 
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling 

heart ; 
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part ! 

'Tis past ! the struggle and the pang are o'er, 
And life shall throb with agony no more ; 
While o'er the wasted form, the features pale, 
Death's awful shadows throw their sihery veil. 
Departed spirit ! on this eai'thly sphere 
Though poignant suffering marked thy short 

career. 
Still could maternal love beguile thy •woes, 
And hush thy sighs — an angel of repose I 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest, 
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast ? 
A.nd, while she bends in silence o'er thy bier, 
A-ssuage the grief, too heartsick for a tear r 
Visions of hope in loveliest hues arrayed, 
Fair scenes of bliss by fancy's hand portrayed ! 
A.nd were ye doomed with false, illusive smile, 
tVith flattering promises, to enchant a while ? 
And are ye vanished, never to return, 
Bet in the darkness of the mouldering urn ? 
^^ ill no bright hour departed joj^s restore ? 
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more ? 
Behold no more the soul-illumined face, 
The expressive smile, the animated grace ? 
Must the fair blossom, withered in the tomb, 
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom ? 
Descend, blest faith ! dispel the hopeless care, 
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair ; 
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn. 
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn ; 
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, 
The full perfection of immortal hues ; 
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies. 
By death released, the parent spirit flies ; 
There shall the child, in anguish mourned so 

long, 
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, 
And guide her pinion on exulting flight. 
Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds 
of living light. 

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends ! 
If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends ; 
If, with benignant care, ye linger near. 
To guard the objects in existence dear ; 
If, hovering o'er, ethereal band ! ye view 
The tender sorrows, to your memory true ; 
0, in the musing hour, at midnight deep. 
While for your loss affection wakes to weep ; 
While every sound in hallowed stillness lies, 
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs ; 
0, then, amidst that holy calm be near. 
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear ; 
With secret spells her wounded mind compose. 
And chase the faithful tear — for you that flows : 
Be near — when moonlight spreads the charm 

you loved 
O'er scenes w^here once your earthly footstep 

roved. 
Then, while she wanders o'er the sparkling 

dew, 
Chrough glens tnd wood paths, once endeared 

by you, 



And fondly lingers in your favorite bowers, 

And pauses oft, recallir g former hours ; 

Then wave your pinion o'er each well-knowu 

vale, 
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale ; 
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell. 
Borne by the summer wdnd from grot and dell ; 
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe het 

soul 
"With soft enchantments and divine control! 
Be near, sweet guardians ! watch her sacred rest. 
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest ; 
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise. 
Returned in dreams, to bless her mental eyes ; 
Efface the memory of your last farewell — 
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell. 
The sweet communion of the past renew, 
Reviving former scenes, arrayed in softer hue. 

Be near when death, in virtue's brightesi 

hour, 
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power ; 
O ! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream, 
Then let your forms unveiled around her beam : 
Then w^aft the vision of unclouded light, 
A burst of glory, on her closing sight ; 
Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal 

strain, 
To hush the final agonies of pain ; 
With rapture's flame the parting soul illume, 
And smile triumphant through the shadow. 

gloom ! 
O ! still be near, when, darting into day, 
Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay ; 
Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high 
O'er many a world, ascending to the sky ; 
There let your presence, once her earthly joy, 
Though dimmed with tears and clouded with 

alloy. 
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore 
Where death shall sever kindred hearts na 



Yes ! in the noon of that Elysian clime, 
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time \ 
Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire. 
Shall beam on glories never to expire ; 
O ! there th' illumined soul may fondly trust, 
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dusl 
Those mild afl'ections, whose consoling light 
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, 
Sublimed, ennobled, shall forever glow, 
Exalting rapture — not assuaging woe ! 



68 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



TO MR. EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF 
CONWAY. 

[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed 
were 'during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, 
where the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most 
beautiful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire 
the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of en- 
thusiasm ; and it may therefore well be supposed how fer- 
renth' a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature 
at so fitting a slirine. With that happy versatility which 
was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she 
would now enter with childlike playfulness into the enjoy- 
ments of a mountain scramble, or a picnic water part}', the 
gaj'est of the merry band, of whom some are now, like her- 
self, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed 
Ay sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, 
dream away hours of pensive contemplation amidst the 
gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh castles, standing, as it 
then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or 
causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary 
waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes 
never ceased to retain their hold over the imagination of 
her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their 
praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs. Joanna Baillie's 
play of Ethwald was always pleasingly associated with the 
recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins of Con- 
•n'ay Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance 
with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous 
Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in 
lier favor. Her own little poem, " The Ruin and its Flow- 

rs," which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the 
oresent collection, was written on an excursion to the old 
fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on 
a bold promontory near the entrance of the River Conway ; 
and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, 
once bore their part bravely in tlie defence of Wales ; and 
are further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as 
having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and 
resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate 
representative of that gifted bard i had, at the time now 
alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway ; but 
his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain 
few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so 
worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one 
BO fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty, — 

" The minstrel was infirm and old ; " 
but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the fol- 
lowing lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the 
magic power he sail knew how to exercise over the feelings 
of his auditors.] 

Minstrel ! whose gifted hand can bring 
Life, rapture, soul, from every string ; 
And wake, like bards of former time, 
The spirit of the harp sublime ; 
O, still prolong the varying strain ! 
O, touch the enchanted chords again ! 

1 Mr. Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was gen- 
rrally called, had been blind from his birth, and was en- 
dowed with that extraordinarj' musical genius by which 
persons suffering under such a visitation arenot unfrequently 
'indemnified. From the respectability of his circumstances, 



Thine is the charm, suspending car© 
The heavenly swell, the dying close, 
The cadence melting into air, 
That lulls each passion to repose ; 
While transport, lost in silence near, 
Breathes all her language in a tear. 

Exult, O Cambria ! — now no more 
With sighs thy slaughtered bards deplore 
What though Plinlimmon's misty brow 
And Mona's woods be silent now, 
Yet can thy CouAvay boast a strain 
Unrivalled in thy proudest reign. 

For Genius, with divine control, 
Wakes the bold chord neglected long, 
And pours Expression's glowing soul 
O'er the wild Harp, renoAvned in song ; 
And Inspiration, hovering round, 
Swells the full energies of sound. 

Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone. 
Could rouse the warrior's kindling fire, 
And now, 'tis like the breeze's moan. 
That murmurs o'er th' Eolian lyre : 
As if some sylph, with viewless wing. 
Were sighing o'er the magic string. 

Long, long, fair Conway ! boast the skill 
That soothes, inspires, commands, at wiU ! 
And O, while rapture hails the lay. 
Far distant be the closing day. 
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, 
And Cambria's Harp lie hushed in sleep 1 



EPITAPH ON MR. W , 

A CELEBRATED MINEEALOOIST. 2 

Stop, passenger ! a wondrous tale to list — 
Here lies a famous Mineralogist. 

lie was not called upon to exercise his talents with any view 
to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others 
and the innocent complacency with which he enjoyed tin 
ecstasies called forth by his skill, and the degree of appre- 
ciation with which he regarded himself, as in a mannei 
consecrated, by being made the depositary of a direct gifl 
from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of 
the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit. 

2 " Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amis* 
to introduce two little pieces of a very different charactei 
from the foregoing, [Lines to -Mr. Edward, the Harper,] 
which were written at the same place, three or four years 
afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that versatility of 
talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they 
were never intended for piiblication, but were merely a icu 
dU'sprd of the moment, in good-inimorcd raillerj' of the in- 
defatigable zeal and perseverence of one of the party in bit 
geological researches." — .Vomci/-, p. 20. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Famous indeed ! such traces of his power, 
de's left from Penmaenbach to Pcnmaenmawr, 
Buch eaves, and chasms, and fissures in the 

rocks, 
tlis words resemble those of earthquake shocks ; 
And future ages verj^ much may wonder 
'.Vhat mighty giant rent the hills asunder, 
Or whether Lucifer himself had ne'er 
Gone with his crew to play at football there. 

His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue. 
With him, good reader, here lied buried too — 
Sweet specimens ! which, toiling to obtain, 
He split huge cliifs, like so much wood, in 

twain. 
We knew, so great the fuss he made about 

them. 
Alive or dead, he ne'er would rest without them ; 
So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, 
We paved his grave with all his favorite stones. 
His much-loved hammer 's resting by his side ; 
Each hand contains a shellfish petrified ; 
His mouth a piece of pudding stone encloses, 
And at his feet a lump of coal reposes : 
Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet ! 
His very ooffin plate is made of granite. 

Weep not, good reader ! he is truly blest 
Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest : 
Weep not for him ! but envied be his doom, 
Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had 

room : 
And, O, ye rocks ! — schist, gneiss, whate'er ye 

be. 
Ye varied strata ! — names too hard for me — 
Sing, " 0, be joyful! " for your direst foe 
By death's fell hammer is at length laid low. 

Ne'er on your spoils again shall W riot. 

Clear up your cloudy brows, and reht in quiet ; 
He sleeps — no longer planning hostile actions. 
As cold as any of his petrifactions ; 
Enshrined in specimens of every hue, 
loo tranquil e'en to dream, ye rocks, of^you. 



EPITAPH 

ON THE HASHES O^ THE AFORESAID MINEBALOQIST. 

Here in the dust, its strange adventures o"er, 
A hammer rests, that ne'er knew rest before. 
Released from toil, it slumbers by the side 
Of one who oft its temper sorely tried ; 
N'o day e'er passed, but in some desperate strife 
fifi risked the faithful hammer's limbs and life : 



Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, 
Some rock now battering, proof to cannon ball 
Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, 
Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize 
But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, 
He'd mount a precipice that touched the skies 
Ajid bring down lumps so precious, and so many 
I'm sure they almost would have made — a 

penny ! 
Think, when such deeds as these were daily 

done. 
What fearful risks this hammer must have r in 
And, to say truth, its jDraise deserves to shine 
In lays more lofty and more famed than mine : 
0, that in strains which ne'r should be forgot. 
Its deeds were blazoned forth by Walter Scott ! 
Then should its name with his be closely linked 
And live till every mineral were extinct. 
Rise, epic bards ! be yours the ample field — 

Bid W 's hammer match Achilles' shield: 

As for my muse, the chaos of her brain, 

I search for specimens of wit in vain ; 

Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer. 

And seek some theme less arduous than the 

hammer ; 
Remembering well, "what perils do environ" 
Woman or "man that meddles with cold iron. 



PROLOGUE TO THE POOR GENTLE^ 
MAN, 

as intended to be performed bt the officeks of th* 
34th eeoiment at CLONMEL. 1 

Enter Captain George Browne, i?i the lianctcr of 
Corporal Foss. 



To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here. 
Stands " The Poor Gentleman," with many a 

fear ; 
Since well he knows, whoe'er may judge hii 

cause. 
That Poverty's no title to applause. 
Genius or Wit, pray, who'll admire or quote. 
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat ? 
Who, in a world where all if bought and sold, 
Minds a man's worth — except his worth in gold * 
Who'll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner ! 
Hence, starving saint ! but welcome, wealthy 

sinner ! 
Away with Poverty ! let none receive her. 
She bears contagion as a plague or fever ; 

1 These verses were written about the same time as tbt 
preceding humorous epitauhs. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



• Bony, and gaunt, and grim " — like jaundiced 
eyes, 

Discoloring all Avithin her sphere that lies. 

" Poor Gentleman \" and by poor soldiers, too ! 

O, matchless impudence ! without a sou ! 

In scenes, in actors poor, and -what far -worse is, 

With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses, 

How shall they dare at such a bar appear ? 

What are their tactics and manoeuvres here ? 

While thoughts like these come rushing o'er 

our mind, 
O, may we still indulgence hope to find ! 
Brave sons of Erin ! whose distinguished name 
Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, 
And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle ! 
View our weak efforts with approving smile ! 
Schooled in rough camps, and still disdaining art, 
111 can the soldier act a borrowed part ; 
The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, 
Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage : 
His theatre is found in every land. 
Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band : 
Place him in danger's front — he recks not 

where — 
Be your own Wellington his prompter there, 
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, 
He'll act his part in glory's tragic scene. 
Yet here, though friends are gayly marshalled 

round, 
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound. 
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter's wile 
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty's smile ; 
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear. 
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. 
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies, 
\o stage effect of glittering pageantries : 



No, to your kindness he must look aloi * 
To realize the hope he dares not own ; 
And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye. 
His "wish to please may claim indemrity. 

And why despair, indulgence when we cravi 
From Erin's sons, the generous and the brave ? 
Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, 
Kind, -warm, sincere, with native candoi 

fraught ; 
Still has the stranger, in their social isle. 
Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, 
And well their hearts can share, though unex- 
pressed. 
Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier's 
breast. 

[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of 
Mrs. Heinans, chronological arrangement has been for the 
first time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile 
compositions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curios- 
ity — for her real career as an authoress cannot be said to 
have commenced before the publication of the section which 
immediately follows. 

In a very general point of view, the intellectual history 
of Mrs. Hemans's mind may be divided into two distinci 
and separate eras — the first of which may be termed the 
classical, aud comprehends the productions of her pen, from 
"The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," and 
" Modern Greece," down to the " Historical Scenes," and 
the " Translations from Camoens ; " and the last, the ro 
mantic, which commences with " The Forest Sanctuar}," 
and includes " The Records of Woman," together with 
nearly all her later efforts. In regard to excellence, tJiere 
can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the 
first as that does the merely Juvenile Poenjs now given 
and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasiona' s( in 
tillations of the brightness which followed. Even afier tin 
early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chattertnn 
Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of 
sentiment and description may be read with an interesi 
which diminishes not by comparison. J 



TJiE KESTOliATlON OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



71 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 

l" The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surjjassed the rapaci 
fl/ of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its master 
pieces from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transjwrtcd them to Paris, and cnisigneO 

them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre But the joy of discovery was sbort, an<l 

the tnuniph of taste transitory." — Eustacb's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. CO.] 

" Italia, Italia ! O tu cui die la sorte 
Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai 
Funesta dote d' infiniti guai 
Che'n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte; 
Deh, fossi tu men bella, O almen piu forte." 

FiLICAJA. 



Land o^ departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Save proudly echoed to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallowed soil hath given the great and 

brave, 
Daystars of life, a birthplace and a grave ; 
Home of the Arts ! -where glory's faded smile 
Sheds hngering light o'er many a mouldering 

pile; 
t*roud wreck of vanished power, of splendor fled, 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! 
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimmed thy brightness, riveted thy 

chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 'tis thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom 
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, 
Swelled the deep echoes of the fountain's cave. 
Or thrilled the soul in Tasso's numbers high — 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry ! 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, 
0, rouse once more the daring soul of song. 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
A.'^d hail, with wonted pride, those works re- 
vered^ 
Hallowed by time, by absence more endeared. 

And breathe to Those the strain, whose war- 
rior might 
Each danger stemmed, prevailed in every fight, 
'Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured. 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind 
")ould rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind : 



Whose banners tracked the vanquished Eagle'i 
flight 

O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height ; 

W^ho bade once more the wild heroic lay 

Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 

Who, through each mountain pass of ro3k and 
snow. 

An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck 
foe ; 

Waved his proud standard to the balmy galeS) 

Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, 

And 'midst those scenes renewed th' achieve- 
ments high 

Bequeathed to fame by England's ancestry. 

Yet, when the storm seemed hushed, the con- 
flict past. 
One strife remained — the mightiest and the 

last! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour 
Untamed Ambition summoned all his power : 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, wera 

there, 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free ! 'twas then thy champions stood, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood ; 
Sunbeam of battle ! then thy spirit shone. 
Glowed in each breast, and sunk with Hfe alopa 

O hearts devoted ! w^hose illustrious doom 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb 
Y'e firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; 
Shrined, not entombed, ye rest in sacred earth. 
Hallowed by deeds of more than mortal worth 
Wliat though to mark where sleeps heroic dust 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust» 
Y^ours, on the scene where valor's race was rui\ 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye won ! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, 
Shall live a watchword blended with vour fame 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITAL\. 



And well may flowers suffice those graves to 

crown ' 

That ask no urn to blazon their renown ! 
There shall the bard in future ages tread, 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the 

dead ; 
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches 

wave 
0" ex the low mounds, the altars of the brave ! 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and 

hear 
In every breeze some name to glory dear ; 
And as the shades of twilight close around, 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain 
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane. 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevailed, and 

fell. 
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair 
To learn the Hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame, 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre ! 'twas there th' avenging sword 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that 

throw 
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe. 
And bid the stranger for a while forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes, fair creations ! to perfection wrought. 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ' 
Forms of sublituity ! by Genius traced 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ! 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, 
Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consigned, 
Stamped with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall re- 
store 
One beam of splendor to your native shore. 
And her sad scenes of lost renown Olume, 
^8 the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

O, ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye 
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy — 
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly 

grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
■^eema a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 



Where 'midst the ruined shrines of many a vale 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale. 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes ! in those scenes where every ancient 

stream 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme; 
Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell 
From each wild olive wood, and Alpine dell ; 
Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, 
'Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes. 
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot. 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot . 
There was your home, and there your powei 

impressed. 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
And, as the wind's deep thrills and mystic sighs 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies. 
Thus at your influence, starting frcni repose, 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! queen of Arno's lovely vale 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, 
And sternly smiled, in retribution's hour. 
To wTCSt thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourned o'er the domes they reared in agea 

fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste. 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien, 
Revealed where Conquest's lawless track had 

been ; 
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued. 
Lonely they frowned, a desert solitude. 
Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er, 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 

As one who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, 
With transport heightened by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe. 
While heaven's own hues in radiance round 

thee glow, 
With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, sinci 

deplored 
As loved-lost relics, ne'er to be restored — 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear drop shed 
By fond afl"ection bending o'er the dead 



THE HESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



•/? 



Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mme. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, 
And forms august as natives of the sky 
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty — 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, 
Burst in full splendor from her deathlike 

trance — 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations 

wake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break — 
Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, 
And snatched the Tuscan lyre from long repose, 
And bade its pealing energies resound 
With power electric through the realms around ; 
high in thought, magniiicent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more, 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! 
Again th' enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
These sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
8eems in the marble's breathing mould en- 
shrined ; 
Still with ascendant power the world to awe. 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around. 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, 
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind ! 
Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind ! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
O, who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flashed o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight. 
How many a glimpse, revealed to him alone, 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own ; 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless. 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kin- 
dling eye 
On forms instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers dilating in his hearty 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand arrayed, 
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portrayed ; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, 
^ealed \^ith perfection, " sanctified by time : " 
10 



Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal : 
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, 
Imbued at once with nobler energies ; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinions soar. 
And worlds of visionary grace explore, 
Till his bold hand give glory's day dream birth 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 

Venice, exult ! and o'er thy moonlight seas 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martia, 

fame 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name ; 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play. 
And the wild waves another Queen obey ; 
Though quenched the spirit of thine ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace . 
Yet still shaU Art her splendors round the* 

cast. 
And gild the wreck of years forever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes. 
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies, 
And scenes that glow in coloring's richest bloon 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again th' unrivalled steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed, 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame. 
Panting with ardor, vivified with flame. 

Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thoughi 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught. 
No mortal birth ye seem — but formed to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph tlirough the realms of 

air; 
To range uncurbed the pathless fields of space, 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether ! winged with light 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 
From purer elements whose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn 
What years on years in silence gliding by, 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, 
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode. 
How many a race, w-hose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream. 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave: 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY 



How many a state, whose pillared strength sub- 
lime 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, 
FoAvering o'er earth majestic and alone, 
i?'ortress of power — has flourished and is gone ! 
And they, from chme to clime by conquest 

borne. 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won 
Kaye seen the noontide and the setting sun. 
Consummate still in every grace remain, 
As o'er their heads had ages rolled in vain ! 
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might ! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain. 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who reared her island 

throne. 
And called th' infinitude of waves her own ; 
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea. 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free ! 

And thou, whose Eagle towering plume un- 
furled 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world. 
Eternal City . round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; 
Fhou, whose Augustan years have left to time 
[mmortal records of their glorious prime ; 
When deathless bards, thine oKve shades among, 
Swelled the high raptures of heroic song ; 
Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead. 
And once again with fond delight survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, O Rome ! a godlike train, 
In imaged majesty return again ! 
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien 

august 
O'ei' scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control ; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, 
Bind hife rapt soul in elevating trance. 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes. 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty ! whose undying names 
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 
O, with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
l^atriots and Heroes ! could tliose flames return 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardors 
burn 



Then from the sacred ashes of the first 
Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst * 
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon* 

gloom. 
With one loud call wake empire fi-om the tomb; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread segis with majestic frown. 
Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight 
To bathe his plumage in the fount of light ! 

Vain dream ! Degraded Rome ! thy noon Li 

o'er; 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, 
"Who fixed on thee the world's adoring gaze ; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, 
More blest, ere darkness quenched its beam, to 

die! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers 
Have fied thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way. 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
O, what can realms in fame's full zenith boast 
To match the relics of thy splendor lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill. 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still ; 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom. 
And reared her throne o'er Latium's trrphied 

tomb : 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free, 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 

O, ne'er again may War, with lightning stroke, 
Rend its last honors from the shattered oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine. 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decHne. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathfu] 

fire. 
In all the grandeur of celestial ire. 
Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer'i 

form 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being 

warm ! 
O, who could view, nor deem that perfect frtm* 
A living temple of ethereal flame ? 

Lord of the daystar ! how may words portray 
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray ? 
Whatc'er the soul could dream, the hand coula 

trace. 
Of regal dignity and heavenly grace ; 
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright. 
Whose fitful "leams have broke on mortal sight 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO IIALY. 



74 



Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky, 

To vest th' embodied form of Deity ; 

All, all in thee, ennobled and refined. 

Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined ! 

Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 

Have bowed in speechless homage at thy throne, 

And days unborn, and nations yet to be. 

Shall gaze, absorbed in ecstasy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck,^ e'en yet sub- 
lime. 
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time : 
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervors of diviner thought ! 
Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sj^here to him alone assigned ; 
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien : 
Unrivalled Angelo on thee would gaze, 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatnes*! view without despair ? 
Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurled. 
Vet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands 
defaced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste ? 
0, worthy still of some divine abode. 
Mould of a Conqueror ! ruin of a God ! ' 

Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless 

beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 
Tis thine, by fate unconquered, to dispense 
From every part some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, informed with essence fi-om on high, 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! 
Within that frame a purer being glows, 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows ; 
Filled with immortal life each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

1 The Belvidere Torso, the favorite study of Michael 
Ajigelo, and of many other distinguished artists. 

2 '-Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait et6 maltraitee et 
aiutil6e d'une maniere etrange, se trouvant sans tete, sans 
bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef- 
d'oeuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs ; et ceux qui savent 
percer dans les mysteres de I'art se la representent dans 
toute sa beaute. L'ar'iste, en voulant representer Hercule, 
a forin6 un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature * * * Get 
Hercule paroit done ici tel qu'il put etre lorsque, purifie par 
le feu des foiblesses de I'humanite, il obtint I'immortalite et 
prit place aupr^s des Dieux. II est represente sans aucun 
besoin de nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les veines 
y ?ont tout invisibles." — Winckelmann, Histoire de PJlrt 
chet les Aiiciens, torn- ii p. 248. 



Consummate work ! the noblest and the last 
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past : ' 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingenng still. 
Her mantle flowed o'er many a classic liill, 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A hero's image to the world bequeathed ; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray 
Of high-souled Genius, fostered by hex sway, 
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn. 
What lofty dreams were hers — who never shai 
return ! 

And marA yon group, transfixed with mauj 

a throe. 
Sealed with the image of eternal woe : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, expressed. 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast. 
And the stern combat picture to mankind 
Of suff"ering nature and enduring mind. 
O, mighty conflict ! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through ever]! 

sense ; 
Though fixed on him, his children's suppliant eye* 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 
Though with the giant snake in fruitless strife, 
Heaves every muscle wdth convulsive life, 
And in each limb existence writhes, enrolled 
'Midst the dread circles of the venoracd fold ; 
Yet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony ! 
Thar furrowed brow unconquered soul reveals. 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals. 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath. 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death ! ^ 

3 " Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des demiers ouvrages 
parfaits que I'art ait produit en Grece, avaiit la perte de sa 
liberte. Car apres que la Grfece fut reduite en province 
Roniaine, I'histoire ne fait mention d'aucun artiste celebre 
de cette nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain.'' 
— WiNCKELMANN, ibid. tOHi. ii. p. 250. 

i " It is not, in the same manner, in the agonized limbs, 
or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret 
grace of its composition resides ; it is in the majestic air of 
the head, which has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep 
serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to 
all its uffl.icUoji.-i, and signiticant of a mind that cannot be 
subdued." — Alison's Essuij.i, vol. ii. p. 400. 

" Laocoon nous ofFre le spectacle de la nature humaine 
dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous 
I'image d'un homme qui tache de rassembler contre elie 
toute la force de I'esprit. Tandisque I'exces de la souffrance 
enfle les nuiscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage S6 
mont resur le front gonfl6 : la poitrine s'eleve avec pein? 
par la neccssite de la respiration, qui est 6galemcnt contraint* 
par le silence que la force de I'anie impose i ta douleui 
qu'elle voudroit 6toufler * * * * Son air est plaintifj 
et non criard." — Winckelmann, Histoire df l\irt chei Ut 
^iiciens, tom. ii. p. 214. 



70 



THE IIESTOIIATION OF THE WORKS OF AKT TO ITALY. 



Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art ! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart, 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
In scenes where painting all her skill displays : 
-M.andscapes, by coloring dressed in richer dyes. 
More mellowed sunshine, more unclouded skies, 
Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, 
Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

O, sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, 
Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light ; 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Children of Italy ! who stand alone 
And unapproached, 'midst regions all your ovm. ; 
That scenes, what beings blessed your favored 

sight, 
Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity. 
And gaze un tired, undaunted, uncontrolled. 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splen- 
dor shed 
As burst on prophet bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might 

dare. 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair ; 
These o'er the walls your magic skill arrayed, 
Qlow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting 

shade. 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, 
And breathe and move, the records of your 

power. 
Inspired of heaven ! what heightened pomp ye 

cast 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome. 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome — 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve, 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Lifo's chastened warmth and Beauty's mellow- 
est glow. 
And when the Morn's bright beams and man- 
tling dyes 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, 
Or evening suns dlume with purple smile 
The Parian altar and the pillared aisle, 



Then, as the full or softened radiance falls 
On angel groups that hover o'er the walls, 
Well may those temples, where your hand hai 

shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair. 
That nought of earth should find admittance 

there, 
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind un- 
known. 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone ! 

Hence, ye vain fictions ! fancy's erring theme I 
Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time. 
Fables of song, delusive though sublime ! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assigned 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ' 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flowed. 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glowed. 
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore 
The land of miracles, the holiest shore ; 
That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, 
The loved, the punished, of th' Omnipotent ! 
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would 

stray. 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way 
By SHoa's brook, or Almotana's deep,* 
Chained in dead silence, and unbroken sleep ; 
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell 
Where passed th' Eternal, where his anger fell ' 
Where oft his voice the words of fate revealed. 
Swelled in the whirlwind, in the thunder pealed, 
Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
" Breathed still small " whispers on the mid- 
night gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand por 

trayed, 
'Midst the lone wilderness or cedar shade. 
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught. 
Or patriarch seers absorbed in sacred thought, 
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, 
And soul returned to animate the dead ; 
Whom the waves owned — and sunk beneatn 

his eye, 
Awed by one accent of Divinity ; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours. 
Hallowed her thoughts, and sanctified hei 
powers. 

1 Almotatia, The name given by the Arabs to the De«i< 
Sea. 



MODjsRX GREECE. 



O'er ber bright scenes sublime repose she threw, 
Aj5 all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

O, mark -where Raphael's pure and perfect 

line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine ! 
Where with transcendent skill his hand has 

shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Savior's head ; * 
Each heaven -illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fulness of beatitude, 
A.nd traced the sainted group, whose mortal 

sight 
Sinks overpowered by that excess of light ! 



Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art 
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers, a heightened consciousness 
And, strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray 5 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere. 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, 
Faint effluence of "the Dayspring from or 
high ! " 

[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one cf 
his published letters to Mr. Murray, dated from Diodali. 
September 30, 1818 : " Italy or Dalmatia and another sum- 
mer may, or may not, set me off again. ... I Glial 
take Felicia Hemans's Restoration, &c., with me : it is 1 
good poem — very."] 



MODERN GREECE, 



" O Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, 
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, 
Be this thy praise, tliat thou, and thou alone. 
In these hast led the way, in these excelled, 
Crowned with the laurel of assenting Time." 

Thomson's Liberty. 



O, "WHO hath trod thy consecrated clime, 
Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains ! 
And traced each scene that, 'midst the wrecks 

of time. 
The print of Glory's parting step retains ; 
Nor for a while, in high- wrought dreams, for- 
got. 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there. 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot. 
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear ; 
As when, from mountain heights, his ardent eye 
Df sea and heaven hath tracked the blue in- 
finity ? 



Is there who views with cold unaltered mien, 
His frozen heart with proud indifference 

fraught. 
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene, 

1 The Transfigurationy thought to be so perfect a specimen 
«! art, that, in honor o' Raphael, it was carried before his 
fcody to the grave. 



Where Freedom triumphed, or where Wis- 
dom taught ? 
Souls that too deeply feel ! O, envy not 
The sullen calm your fate hath never known 
Through the dull twilight of that wintry lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam 

shone, 
Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory's 
trace. 
Glow with the generous flames of every age 
and race. • 



But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined 
In the calm school of silent solitude ; 
Poured on his ear, 'midst groves and gleni 

retired, 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime. 
All that hath lived, while empires have ea 

pired, 
To float forever on the winds of time • 



r« 



MODERN GREECE. 



And on his soul indeliblj' portrayed 
Pair visionary forms, to fill each, classic shade. 



Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts un- 

kno\^^l, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light r 
There he may dwell in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and 

bright. 
For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veiled from other eyes ; 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies ; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain dell, 
From rocks and caves around calls forth each 

echo's swell. 



For him Italia's brilliant skies illume 

The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat 

plains, 
And the wild rose yet lives to breathe and 

bloom 
Round Doric Paestum's solitary fanes.^ 
But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 
He feels the fervors of his sjiirit rise ; 
Thou birthplace of the Muse ! whose voice 

of yore 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies ; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast, 
ylurmuring a wild farewell to fame and free- 
dom lost. 



By seas that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast rapt in thought may 

stray, 
While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave. 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
— O ye blue waters ! ye, of old that bore 
The free, the conquering, hymned by choral 

strains, 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore. 
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains ! 
How are the mighty vanished in their pride. 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. 

1 " The PjBstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the 
angularity of blowing twice a year, is often mentioned by 
ihe classic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up 
imong the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with 
I vtrj' high perfume ; as a farmer assured me on the spot, 
t flowers both in spring ind autumn." — Swinburne's 
TraveU m the Two Sicilies 



Hushed are the Pseans Trhose exulting tone 
Swelled o'er that tide ^ — the sons of battle 

sleep — 
The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voic« j 

alone j 

Blend with the plaintive murmur of ti-? | 

deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splnii- 

did hues 
Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright. 
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse 
With all their purj^le mellowness >of light, 
O, Avho could view the scene, so calmly fair, 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were 

there ? 



Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs 

blow, 
'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh , 
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence 

glow, 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky . 
— Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the 

dead, 
Verdure and flowers in summer bloom may 

smile. 
And ivy boughs their graceful draper}' spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the rtiined pile ; 
And mantling woodbine veil the withered 

tree ; 
And thus it is, fair land ! forsaken Greece, with 

thee. 



For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the 

tomb. 
The rose's blush that masks the canker worm. 
And thou art desolate — thy mom hath 



So dazzling in the splendor of its sway, 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee 

cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair. 
Thy fate hath been unmatched — in glory aiid 

despair. 

2 In the naval engagements ot the Greeks, " it was usual 
for the soldiers before the fight to sing a paean, or hymn, to 
Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo." — See PoxTrn't 
Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 1 56. 



MODERN GREECE. 



79 



For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath 

flowed, 
The high in soul have brightly lived and died ; 
For thee the light of soaring genius glowed 
O'er the fair arts it formed and glorified. 
Thine were the minds whose energies sublime 
So distanced ages in their lightning race, 
Tlie task they left the sons of later time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 
— Now, bowed to earth, thy children, to be free. 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 

to thee. 



Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales. 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies, ^ 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest ? Alas ! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the san-clad regions of the palm : 
Peace dwells not now on Oriental plain, 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, 
tVhere patriarchs reigned of old in pastoral 
repose. 



Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's 

groves, 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves. 
Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the 

slave ! 
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde 
Where sweeps the sand storm o'er the burn- 
ing wild ; 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting 

sword 
O'er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled ; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, 
'iield to the injured there no shelter salve the 
tomb. 



But thou, fair world ! whose fresh unsullied 

charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, 

1 The emigration of the natives of the Morea to difFer- 
•nt parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in 
ais Itindraire de Paris d Jerusalem — " Parvenu au dernier 
degre du malheur, le Moraite s'arrache de son pays, et va 
thercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir! 
.1 retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables 
*u Jourdain et dans es deserts de Palmyre." 



Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,' 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave ? 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight grandeur 

cast, 
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last ? 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene^ 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'ar 
hath been. 



There by some lake, whose blue expansive 

breast 
Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams. 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dressed 
In tints like those that float o'er poets' dreamt ; 
Or where some flood from pine- clad mountain 

. pours 
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. 
The exiled Greek hath fixed his sjdvan home . 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indiar 

huntsman's feet. 



The forests are around him in their pride. 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 
And isles of flowers, bright floating o'er th<' 

tide,3 
That images the fairy worlds it laves. 
And stillness, and luxuriance. O'er his head 
The ancient cedars w-ave their peopled bowers. 
On high the palms their graceful foliagt 

spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers , 
And from those green arcades a thousani, 

tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through 

Nature's temple moans. 



And there, no traces left by brighter days 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief 

2 In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates hti 
having met with several Greek emigrants who had estab 
lished themselves in the woods of Florida. 

3 " La grace est toujours unie i la magnificence dans ift^ 
scenes de la nature : et tandis que le courant du milieu en 
tralne vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des cheiies, ob 
voit sur les deux courants lateraux, remonter, le long de* 
rivages des iles flottantes de Pistia et de Nenuphar, dont lee 
roses jaunes s'elevent comme de petits papillons." — Dc 
scri-ption of the Banks of the Mississippi, Chatkaurriamp 
jltala. 



■JO MODERN 


GllEECE. 


Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his 


Or dreams how softly Athens' towers wo'old 


gaze, 


smile, 


The lone memorial of an Indian chief. 


Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 


There man not yet hath marked the bound- 


On Corinth's clifl" what sunset hues may 


less plain 


sleep, 


With marble records of his fame and power ; 


Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' ^iEgean 


The forest is his everlasting fane, 


deep ! 


The palm his monument, the rock his tower : 




Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree 


XX. 


Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly 


What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him li]i« 


free. 


thine ? 




(The all of thine no tjTant could destroy !) 


XVII. 


E'en to the stranger's roving eye, they shine 


But doth the exile's heart serenely there 


Soft as a vision of remembered joy. 


In sunshine dwell ? Ah ! when was exile 


And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 


blest ? 


A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill. 


When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or 


Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy deca^', 


summer air, 


To laughing climes, where all is splendor still j 


Chase from his soul the fever of unrest ? 


And views with fond regret thy lessening 


— There is a heartsick weariness of mood. 


shore. 


That like slow poison wastes the vital glow. 


As he would watch a star that sets to rise at* 


And shrines itself in mental solitude. 


more. 


An uivcomplaining and a nameless woe, 




That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest 


XXI. 


ray, 


Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine 


A.S the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of 


That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, 


day. 


To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, 




And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 


XVIII. 


Amidst the tombs of heroes — for the brave 


Such grief is theirs, who, fixed on foreign 


Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy 


shore. 


soil. 


Sigh for the spirit of their native gales. 


Foremost in honor's phalanx, died to save 


As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar, 


The land redeemed and hallowed by theii 


For the green earth, with all its woods and 


toil; 


vales. 


And there is language in thy lightest gale, 


Thus feels thy child^ whose memory dwells 


That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 


^ith thee, 


yet their tale. 


Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou 

art; 
Though thought and step in western wilds be 


XXII. 


And he, whcse heart is weary of the strife 


free. 


Of meaner spii-its, and whose mental gaze 


Yet thine are still the day dreams of his heart : 


Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, 


The deserts spread between, the billows foam, 


A while to dwell amidst sublimer days. 


Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's 


Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems 


home. 


With proud remembrances that cannot die. 




Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams 


XIX. 


Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 


In vain for him the gay liannes entwine. 


And 'midst thy laurel shades the wanderei 


Or the green firefly sparkles through tlie 


hears 


brakes, 


The sound of mighty names, the hymns of van 


Or summer winds waft odors from the pine. 


ished years. 


As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. 




Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the 


xxm. 


while. 


Through that deep solitude be his to stray. 


' Jr breathes the freshness of Cithaeron's height, 


By Faun and Oread loved in ages past. 



MODERN GREECE. 



81 



Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way- 
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur 

vast. 
Romantic; Tempe ! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time : * 
Year's, that have changed thy river's classic 

name,' 
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts and marble 

caves, 
[n living lustre still break forth the fountain 



Benea h thy mountain battlements and towers. 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow,^ 
Or 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, 
lasting deep shadows o'er the current's 
flow. 



- " Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness 
!«f ihis mountain channel, (Tempe,) and conirasting it with 
the course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, 
Ihe imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that tliese 
plains were once covered with water, for which some con- 
vulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow 
passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually em- 
ployed to describe scenery in which the predominant fea- 
tures are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has 
rJready perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to 
the scenery at this spot, and that the ph ase, vale of Tempe, 

is one that depends on poetic fiction The real 

character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet 
possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the 

•oithet given to it To those who have visited 

St. Vincent's Rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey ti more 
sufficient idea of Tempe than by saying that its scenery 
resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the for- 
mer place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the 
ralley, is not greatly wider thai the Avon ; and the chan- 
nel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimen- 
sions : but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and 
more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock 
with still more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow 
beneath." — Holland's Travels in Albania, Sfc. 

2 The modem name of the Peneus is Salympria. 

8 " Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are 
peaked in a i ^ry singular manner, and form projecting 
angles on the vast perpendicular faces of rock which they 
present towards the chasm ; where the surface renders it 
possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks are for the 
most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the 
arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, 
wherever (here is a small interval between the water and 
the cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely-spreading 
foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which 
in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in 
various places extend their shadow far over the channel of 

the stream The rocks on each side of the vale 

of Tempe are evidently the same ; what may be called, I 
believe, a coarse, bluish-gray marble, with veins and por- 
ions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality." — 
Holland'! TraveU in rilbania, ^c. 

n 



Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, 
As rock and stream some glancing light have 

caught, 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impre«.H 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought ; 
And linger oft, recalling many a tale, 
That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whis- 
pering through thy dale. 



He, thought entranced, may wander wneit 
of old 

From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapor rose. 

And trembling nations heard their dooT! fore • 
told 

By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and 
snows. 

Though its rich fanes be blended with the 
dust, 

And silence now the hallowed haunt pos- 
sess. 

Still is the scene of ancient rites august. 

Magnificent in mountain loneliness 

Still inspiration hovers o'er the ground, 
Where Greece her councils held,'* her Pythian 
victors crowned. 



Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartai, 

blood. 
When by the waves that break on Qilta's shore 
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead,' 
Or ]pne Platsea's ruins yet remain, 
To mark the battle field of ages fled ; 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain. 

grot, and bower. 

XXVII. 

O, still unblamed may fancy fondly deem 
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell 
Where mortal worth has hallowed grove oi 

stream, 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell ' 



4 The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring an- 
autumn at Delphi or Thermopylae, and presided at tne 
Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi ever}- fiff*- 
year. 

6 " This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which sc 
many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with 
rosemary and laurels" — PouciuBviLLK'i Travels in tM* 
Morea. 



02 



MODERN GREECE. 



For mightiest minds have felt their blest con- 
trol 

In the "vvood s murmur, in the zephyr's sigh, 

And these are dreams that lend a voice and 
soul, 

And a high power, to Nature's majesty ! 

And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor 
feel, 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic 
steal? 

XXVIII. 

Yet many a sad reality is there, 

That Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil, 

Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the 

air, 
But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale ; 
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws 
Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene — 
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 
That follows where the earthquake's track 

hath been ; 
Or solemn calm on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death has hushed 

the seamen's cries. 



Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurled 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doomed to resign the homage of a world, 
For Pity's deepest sigh and saddest tear ? 
O, hast thou watched the awful wreck of 

mind 
That weareth still a glory in decay ? 
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind — 
Thought, science, genius — to the storm a 

prey; 
And o'er the blasted tree, the withered ground, 
Oespair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly 

flourish round ? 



So may'st thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck 
thought, 

Of the deep fall of that yet lovely clime ; 

Such there the ruin Time and Fate have 
wrought. 

So changed the bright, the splendid, the sub- 
lime. 

There the proud monuments of Valor's name. 

The mighty works Ambition piled on high. 

The rich remains by Art bequeathed to 
Fame — 

Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and sym- 
metry. 



Blend in decay ; while all tnat yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath pei- 
ished there ! 



There, while around lie mingling in the dusi 
The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'er- 

grown, 
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust, 
The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone - - 
Amidst the loneliness of shattered fanes, 
Still matchless monuments of other years — 
O'er cypress groves or solitary plains, 
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears ; 
As on some captive city's ruined wall 
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its 

fall 



Still, where that column of the mosque aspires 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste, 
There science droops, the Muses hush then 

lyres, 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 
Spreads the chill blight ; as in that Orient isle 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,' 
Within its precincts not a flower may smile. 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 

XXXIU, 

Far other influence poured the Crescent's light 
O'er conquered realms, in ages passed away ; 
Fvill and alone it beamed, intensely bright, 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and 

shades. 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers 
Its sculptured lions,'' richly- wrought arcades 
Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers ; 
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale 
Would picture fairy domes that fleet before th« 

gale. 

1 For the accounts of the upas or poisou tree ; t Java, now 
generally behoved to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, 
see the notes to Darwin's Botanic Garden. 

2 " The court most to be admired of the AUiambra is that 
called the court of the Lions ; it is ornamented with sixty 
elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not tlie least 
resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called 

the Arabian order But its principal ornament, 

and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup 
six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said 
to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solo- 
mon's temple." — BuaooANNfi'i Travels \n Spain 



MODERN GREECE. 



SXXIV. 

Then fostered genius lent each caliph's throne 
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 
And stars unnximbered o'er the Orient shone, 
Bright as that Pleiad, sphered in Mecca's fane.' 
From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains 
Rose and reechoed to the desert's bound, 
And Science, wooed on Egypt's burning plains, 
Reared her majestic head with glory crowned ; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 

XXXV. 

Those years have past in radiance — they have 

past, 
As sinks the daystar in the tropic main 5 
His parting beams no soft reflection cast, 
They burn — are quenched — and deepest 

shadows reign. 
And Fame and Science have not left a trace 
In the vast regions of the Moslem's power — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower, 
Where towers Oppression 'midst the deep- 
ening glooms, 
ft.8 dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the 
tombs. 

XXXYI. 

Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia poured 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall ; 
When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword. 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne ; 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine ! ^ 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 
0, blest io die in freedom, though in vain — 
Thine empire's proud exchange, the grave, and 
not the chain ! 



Hushed is Byzantium — 'tis the dead of 

night — 
The closing night of that imperial race ! ^ 



" Sept des plus fameux parmi les ancieris poetes Ara- 
oiqiiea son* 'lesignes par les ^crivains Orientaux sous le 
nom de Ple'tade Arabique, et leurs ouvrages etaient sus- 
pendus autour de la Cai.*^a, ou Mosque de la Mecque." — 
BisMONDi, Litteratiire du Midi. 

2 " The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more 
jlorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Csesars." 
— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 226. 

« See the description "( tlie nicht previous tc 'he taking 



And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 
There is a murmuring stillness on the train 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn tc 

die ; 
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane, 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while faith's bright visiouk 
rise. 
There kneels the high-souled prince, the sum- 
moned of the skies. 



Day breaks in light and glory — 'tis the 

hour 
Of conflict and of fate — the war note calls — 
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the rampart 

walls. 
Far o'er Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note ; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of 

steel ; 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle 

float; 
From camp and w' ave rush on the Crescent s 

host. 
And the Seven Towers^ are scaled, and all if 

won and lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then, Greece ! the tempest rose that burst on 

thee, 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! 
O, where were then thy sons, the great, tht 

free. 
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age t« 

age? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and 

snows. 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride. 
In mountain might though Corinth's fortress 

rose. 
On, unresisted, rolled th' invading tide ! 
O, vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- 

quered power. 



of Constantinople by Mahomet II. — Gibbon's Decline avd 
Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 225. 

4 "This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) ii 
mentioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian 
era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constan- 
tinople ; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on 
the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods ( f the ea# 
pire " - Pouqueville's Travels in the Morea 



J4 



MODERN GREECE. 



"Where were th' avengers then, whose view- 
less might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,' 
When through the steep defiles to Delphi's 

height, 
In martial spier dor poured the Persian's train ? 
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, 
Armed with the elements, to vengeance wake. 
Call the dread storms to darken round their 

towers. 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders 

break ; 
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang, 
Bounds of unearthly war through wild Parnas- 
sus rang. 



Where was the spirit of the victor throng 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, 
Whose names are bright in everlasting song, 
The lords of war, the praised, the deified ? 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose ^ 
All armed ; and beaming on the Athenians' 

gaze, 
A battle meteor, guided to their foes ? 
Or they whose forms to Alaric's awe-struck 

eye,^ 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed in airy panoply ? 



Ye slept, O heroes ! chief ones of the earth ! * 
High demigods of ancient days ! ye slept : 
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept. 
N patriot then the sons of freedom led, 



» See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural de- 
fence of Delphi. — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. pp. 396-7. 

2 " In succeeding ages the Athenians honored Theseus as 
ti demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as be- 
cause, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a 
Bonsiderable part of the army thought they saw the appa- 
rition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down be- 
fore them upoj the barbarians." — Langhorne's Plutarch, 
Life of Theseus. 

3 " From Thermopyla; to Sparta, the leader of the Goths 
Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering 

any mortal antagonist ; but one of the advocates of expiring 
paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens 
were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with lier formidable 
cgis, and by the angry j)hantom of Achilles, and that the 
lonqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile de- 
iiea of Greece." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. v. 

163 

* " £ven ill the chief ones of the earth." — Isaiah, xiv. 



In mountain pass depoiedly to die ; 
The martjTT spirit of resolve was fled. 
And the high soul's unconquered buoyancy , 
And by your graves, and on your battle plains 
Warriors ! your children knelt to wear th 
stranojers chains. 



Now have your trophies vanished, and youi 

homes 
Are mouldered from the earth, while search 

remain 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown. 
The lyres are hushed that swelled your fam* 

afar. 
The halls that echoed to their sounds ar» 

gone. 
Perished the conquering weapons of youi 

war ; ^ 
And if a mossy stone your names retain, 
'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in 

vain. 



Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands 
That with those names tradition hallows yet, 
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands 
Linger in solemn thought and hushed regret. 
And still have legends marked the lonely 

spot 
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lie* ; 
And shades of kings and leadej:s unforgct. 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes ! seek your rest again, 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw 

your glory's reign. 

XLV. 

Lo ! where th' Albanian spreads his despot 

sway 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing pbuff 
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey. 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains ; 
O, doth the land that gave Achilles birth. 
And many a chief of old illustrious line, 
Yield not one spirit of unconquered worth 
To kindle those that now in bondage pme ? 
No ! on its mountain air is slavery's breath, 
And terror chills the hearts whose uttered 

plaints were death. 



6 " How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons ol '<ya 
perished ! " — Samuel, book ii chai*. i. 



MODERN GREECE. 



84 



Yet if tky light, fair Freedom, rested there, 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime, 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral val- 
leys fair. 
And walled with mountains, haughtily sub- 
lime ! 
Heights that might well be deemed the Muses' 

reign, 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies. 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild do- 
main — 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where nought of earth may e'er 
intrude, 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 



ihere in rude grandeur daringly ascends 
Stern Pi:idus, rearing many a pine-clad height ; 
He wi'ih the clouds his bleak dominion blends, 
Frowning o'er vales in woodland verdure 

bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride, 
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers, 
Ijlrdled with mists, light floating as to hide 
The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; 
Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, 
A.midst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 

XLVIII. 

Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot 

would roam ; 
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent stream, 
And make the rocky fastnesses her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain flood, 
In the wild eagle's solitary cry, 
1 1 sweeping winds that peal through cave 

and wood, 
Theie is a voice of stern sublimity, 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
',)f solemn joy sevcie, of power, of fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But from those hills the radiance of her smile 
Hath vanished long, her step hath fled afar ; 
O'er Suli's frowning rocks slie paused a while,* 
Kindling the watchfires of the mountain war. 



1 For several interesting particulars relatii e to the Suli- 
I** warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland's Travels in AU 



And brightly glowed her ardent spirit there, 
Still brightest 'midst privation : o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendor, and despair 
But fanned that beacon of the wilderness ; 
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice 
to swell. 



Dark children of the hills ! 'twas Ihtn j i 

wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand : 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought, 
And women mingled with your warrior ban i 
Then on the cliff" the frantic mother stood ' 
High on the river's darkly-rolling wave, 
And hurled, in dread delirium, to the flood 
Her free-born infant, ne'r to be a slave. 
For all was lost — all, save the power to die 
The wild indignant death of savage liberty. 



Now is that strife a tale of vanished days, 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie ; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 
And the dread struggle's fearful memory stil 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan. 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 



For stillness now — the stillness of the dead — 
Hath wrapped that conflict's lone and awful 

scene ; 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin \5pread, 
Tell where the storming of the cliffs hiith been. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude. 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain J 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, 
Where Freedom's banner may be reared again 
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, 
The children of her sons inherit .lut their namt 



Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes 
In scattered fragments o'er the vale th« y lie , 



2 " It is related, a"? an authentic story, that a group o. 
Suliote women asseuibled on one of the precipices adjoin- 
ing the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into thi 
chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of tirf 
enemy." — Hou.and's Travels. <Stt. 



S6 



MODERN GREECE. 



Of all they were not e'en enough, remains 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty.* 
jtJirthplace of those whose names we first re- 
vered 
In song and story — temple of the free ! 
O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the feared, 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee .'' 
Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind. 
And e'en in ruin claimed the wonder of mankind. 



For thine w^ere spirits cast in other mould 
Than all beside — and proved by ruder test ; 
They stood alone — the proud, the firm, the 

bold, 
With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, 
One image stamped the rough, colossal race, 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind. 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace ; 
A.S to the sky some mighty rock may tower, 
W hose front can brave the storm, but will not 

rear the flower. 



Such were thy sons — their life a battle day ! 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! 
Closed is that task, and they have passed away 
Like softer beings trained to aims less high. 
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champions of thy 

cause. 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws ! ^ 
O lofty mother of heroic worth, 
Uow couldst thou live to bring a meaner off- 
spring forth ? 



Hadst thou but perished with, the free, nor 

known 
A second race, when glory's noon went by, 
Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watchword on the helm of liberty . 
Thou shouldst have passed with all the ligh.t 

of fame, 
A nd proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains, 



1 llie ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, 
\x ? very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site 
.-f the Ancicjt city. The scenery around them is described 
»y travellers as veiy striking. 

2 The inscri[)tion composed by Simonides for the Spartan 
monument in the pass of Thermopylae has been thus trans- 
ited : " Stran<fcr, go tell the Lacedemonians tliat we have 
»heyed tiieir laws, and tliat wo lie here." 



But slowly set thy star 'midst clouds of shame 
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' gravesi 
Hast drained the bitter cup once mingled foi 
thy slaves. 

LVII. 

Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 
Freedom's bright noon and slavery's twilight 

cloud ; 
And in thy fall, as in thy pride alone. 
Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud, 
■ Home of Leonidas ! thy halls are low ; 
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled ; 
O'er thee, unmarked, the sunbeams fade or 

glow. 
And wild flowers wave, unbent by human 

tread ; j 

And 'midst thy silence, as the grave's pro- \ 

found, i 

A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly 

sound. 



Taj'getus still lifts his awful brow 
High o'er the mouldering city of the dead, 
Sternly sublime ; while o'er his robe of sno-w 
Heaven's floating tints their warm suffusions 

spread. 
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 
By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain ; 
While, whispering there, his own wild grace- 
ful reeds 
Rise as of old, when hailed by classic strain , 
There the rose laurels still in beauty wave,^ 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 
grave. 



O, thus it is with man ! a tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when these have passed 

away. 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay. 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased 

to be ; 

8 " In the Eurotas 1 observed abundance of those I anions 
reeds which were known in the earliest ages ; and all th« 
rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose laurels 
while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, mix 
roses, hyacintlts, and narcissus orientalis." — PorQrKvii.i e' 
Trarel-tt in Uie Morea. 



MODERN GREECE. 



8? 



Grwp waves the bay -when song and bard are 
fled, 
( ad all that round us blooms is blooming o'er 
the dead. 



And still the olive spreads its foliage round 

Mcr«i's fallen sancl^Miries and to\vers. 

Oiioe its green boughs Minerva's votaries 

crowned, 
Dv,emed a meet offering for celestial powers. 
Tne suppliant's hand its holy branches bore ; * 
They waved around the OljTnpic victor's head ; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, 
Its leaves the Spartan's honored bier o'er- 

sprend. 
Those rites have vanished — but o'er vale and 

hiU 
Its iruitiu] grroves arise, revered and hallowed 

St]U.2 



Where now thy shrines, Eleusis ! where thy 

fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high ? 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, 
The long procession's awful pageantry? 
Quenched is the torch of Ceres ^ — all around 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign ; 
There nevermore shall choral hymns re- 
sound 
O'er the hushed earth and solitary main, 
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows. 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 



And O, ye secret and terrific powers ! 

Dark oracles ! in depth of groves that dwelt, 

How are they sunk, the altars of your bow- 
ers. 

Where Superstition trembled as she knelt ! 

Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that 
made 

Tht Cxcments your voice, the wind and wave ; 

i It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch 
Bi'und with wool. 

2 The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded 
with veneration by the people of the Morea. 

8 It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the 
festival, for men and women to run about with torches in 
flieir hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to 
jontend who should pr?.sent the largest. This was done in 
memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserj)ine, 
4uring wiiich she Avas lighted by a torch kindled in the 
lanies of /Etna. — Pohtkb'» ^lUi^ities of Greece, vol. i. 

m. 



Spirits ! whose influence darkened many > 

shade. 
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 
How long your power the awe-struck natiom 

swayed, 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingh 

obeyed 1 



And say, what marvel, in those early days, 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth wai 

not, 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and 

grot? 
Aw^ful is nature in her savage forms. 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might, 
And mystery then was in the rush of storms, 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night ; 
And mortals heard Fate's language in the 

blast. 
And rear'd your forest shrines, ye phantoms of 

the past ! 

LXIV. 

Then through the foliage not a breeze might 

sigh 
But with prophetic sound — a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight revealed the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures, and conveyed 
Their inspiration ; still they hovered round. 
Hallowed the temple, whispered through th« 

shade. 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; 
Of them the fount, the forest, murmured still, 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on 

the hill. 



Now is the train of Superstition flown ! 
Unearthly beings walk on earth no more ; 
The deep wind swells with no portentctM 

tone. 
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore* 
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's care. 
There dwell no shadows, but of era .5 and st;?ep ; 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave,^ 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terroi 

sleep. 

4 The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Her- 
cynian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks neai 
Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, is 
their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained. —See H« 
land's J'ravds 



MODERN GIILECE. 



O that such dreams alone had fled that clime ! 
Bui Qreece is changed in aU that could be 
changed by time ! 



Her skies are those whence many a mighty 

bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams ; 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, 
Her vales, that fostered Art's divinest dreams ! 
But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone, 
And all around pervading influence poured, 
That lent the harp of .a^schylus its tone. 
And proudly hallowed Lacedaemon's sword, 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone, 
With them its ardors lived — with them its light 
la flown. 



Thebes, Corinth, Argos! — ye renowned of 

old. 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name ? 
How soon the tale of ages may be told ! 
A page, a verse, records the faU of fame. 
The work of centuries. We gaze on you, 
O cities ! once the glorious and the free. 
The lofty tales that charmed our youth renew. 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could 

be? 
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb. 
And find the mosque alone — a record of their 

doom! 

LXVIII. 

How oft hath war his host of spoilers poured. 
Fair EHs ! o'er thy consecrated vales ! ^ 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear 

and sword. 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude. 
As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas ; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. 
Forsaken home of peace ! that spell is broke : 
rhou too hast heard the s^torm, and bowed be- 

reath the yoke 



And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echoed than the strain 



1 Elis was anciently a sacred territorj', its inhabitants 
j«itig consideied as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. 
All armies nuirching through it delivered up their weapons, 
»nd received them aiiain wiien they had passed its boundaty. 



Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain swain 
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, 
On his green banks renewed, the classic dance 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodioiu 

lays. 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell 
'Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 
and dell. 



But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined, 
Thou little sphere, whose soul- illumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind ; 
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day 
Didst first imbibe the splendors of the light, 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; 
O, let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem 
The past a while restored, the present but a dream 



Let Fancy's vivid hues a while prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more 
Hark ! hjinns of triumph swell on ever"« 

gale — 
Lo ! bright processions move along thy shore 
Again thy temples, midst the olive shade. 
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent 

skies ! 
And sculptured forms, of iu^h. and heavenly 

mien. 
In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright 

scene. 



Again renewed by Thought's creative spells, 
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus ! towers : 
Within, around, the light of glory d-»'ells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
There marble fanes in finished grace ascend, 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows , 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; 
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, 
The sage's blest retreats, by cabn Ilissus' tide. 



2 " We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was tm 
province of Greece in which population fir»t became settled 
and where the earliest progress was made tov/ards civiliza 
tion,"— Mitford's Greece, vol. i. d. 3&. 



MODEKN GREECE. 



ftl 



LXXIII. 

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand,* 
On summer seas that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand ; 
Ihat pictured scene of airy colonnades, 
T>ight palacr,s, in shadowy glory drest, 
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades, 
Gleamir.z and floating on the ocean's breast ; 
Athens ! thus fair the dream of thee appears, 
Lb Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of 
years. 

LXXIV. 

Still be that cloud withdrawn — O, mark on 

high, 
Cro-WTiing yon hill, with temples richly graced, 
That fane, august in perfect sjTumetry, 
The purest model of Atheniar taste. 
Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise 
In simple dignity, thy marble's hue 
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies. 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal 

blue; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
ITie harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 



And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow. 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendor reign. 
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencjl emulates in vain. 
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, un- 
fold 
Each latent grace, developing in light ; 
Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold, 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; 



1 Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, 
ivhich is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the 
work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, 
whose account is quoted by Swinburne : — 

'*On the 15th August, 1643, 1 was surprised, as I stood at 
my window, with a most wonderful spectacle : the sea that 
wishes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten 
nalles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the 
waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in 
an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On thia 
glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thou- 
iands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees 
of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, 
like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at 
Ihe top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly 
alike ; these again changea into towers, which were shortly 
after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in 
pines, cypresses, and other tre's.V — Swinburne's Travels 
ill the Tvo Sillies. 

12 



And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems, 
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling witi 
its beams. 

LXXVI. 

But O, what words the vision may portray, 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war'i 

array. 
Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! 
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing 

vest. 
And sculptured aegis, to perfection wrought , 
And on each heavenly lineament imprest. 
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought — 
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose — 
All that a poet's dream around ^Minerva throw* 

LXXVII. 

Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still 
Through time's deep shadows all thy splen« 

dor trace. 
And in each work of art's consummate skiU 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race : 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow, 
Fostered by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes formed, and o'er theii 

name. 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 

LXXVIII. 

Mark in the thronged Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyred brave : 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, 
Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave !' 
And hark ! unrivalled eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphan* 

voice ! 
Hark ! Pericles records their honored names ! ^ 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : 



2 All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by 
the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adcm 
ing tombs ; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians dec 
orated the tomb of Achilles. — Pottbr « jintiquities o/ 
Orerce, vol. ii. p. 232. 

8 Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction ol 
Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies ot 
his countrymen who fell in that \var, and pronounced him 
self the funeral oration usual on such occ?.?'ons. This gained 
him great applause ; and when he came down from the ros 
trum the women paid tlieir respects to him, and presented 
him v/ith crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned 
victorious from the lists. — Langhornk's Plutarch, Lifnf 
Pericles. 



■»0 



MODERN GREECE. 



What hath life brighter than so bright a 
doom ? 
VVhat power hath fate to soil the garlands of 
the tomb ? 

Lxxrx. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust her skill, their triumph's bodying 

forth ; 
Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart 
Shall bear the blazoned impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame 

shall rise, 
Cheir fields of fight shall epic song record ; 
And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, 
Their name shall be their country's rallying 

word ! 
While fane and column rise august to tell 
How Athens honors those for her who proudly 

fell. 

LXXX. 

City of Theseus ! bursting on the mind. 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind. 
Thus hallowed by the memory of the dead : 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveli- 
est ray. 
'Tis but a vision now — yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray : 
And every stone with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 
thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies and tragic lore ; 
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, 
The song that hailed Harmodius peals no 

more. 
Thy proud Piraeus is a desert strand, 
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their 

hill. 
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's 

hand, 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil is rent ' — her image gone ; 
lilent the sage's bower — the warrior's tomb 

o*erthro\m. 

1 The peplus, which is suj)posed to have been suspended as 
in awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, 
wna a principal ornament of tiie Panatlienaic festival ; and it 
was embroidered with various colors, representing the battle 
•♦■ the gods and Titans, and the exj loits of AJ Menian heroes 



Yet in decay thine exquisite remains 
Wondering we view, and silently revere, 
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains 
By vanished beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnificence of Home, 
All that dominion there hath left to time 
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime. 
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal 
As aught by thee imprest with bea*»tv'« pias* 
seal. 



Though still the empress of th« ^imburm 

waste, 
PalmjTa rises, desolately grand — 
Though with rich gold ^ and massy .srvlptuif 

graced, 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude — though sacred Nile 
The first-born temples of the world surveys, 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet displays ; 
City of Pericles ! O, who, like thee, 
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand 

may be ? 

Lxxxrv. 

Thou led'st the way to that illumined spnere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells ; and thenct 

didst bear, 
O, still triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to thee th' enlightened mind hatr 

flown 
As to her country, — thou hast been to eartl 
A cjTiosure, — and, e'en from victory's tlirone. 
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth , 
And nations, rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 



Glory to those whose relics thus trre&t 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 



When the festival was celebrated, the peplus s^as broupht 
from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, 
which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicua 
and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit 
of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to tlie Par 
thenon, and consecrated to Minerva. — See Chandler'i 
Travels, Stuart's Athens, ^-c. 

2 The gilding amidst th'e ruins of Persepolis is still, acc( ti 
ing to Winckelmann, in high preservation. 



MODERN GREECE. 



For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be ! 
Empires and cities in oblivion lie. 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot, — 
To leave on earth renown that cannot die. 
Of high-souled genius is th' unrivalled lot. 
Honor to thee, Athens ! thou hast shown 
^hat mortals may attain, and seized the palm 
alone. 

LXXXVI. 

O, live there those who view with scornful 
eyes 

All that attests the brightness of thy prime ? 

Ves, they who dwell beneath thy lovely 
skies, 

And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! 

Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, 

Their homes are 'midst the works of noblest 
arts ; 

Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, 

Not one proud thrill of loftier thought im- 
parts. 

Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
WTiere Genius first revealed the triumphs of 
his hand ! 

LXXXVII. 

for them in vain the glowing light may smile 
O'er the pale marble, coloring's warmth to 

shed, 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lifts its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have 

not reared ; 
Their glance is cold indifference, and their 

toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered — 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
JVliate'er might prove that land had nursed a 

nobler race. 



And who may grieve that, rescued from their 

hands. 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands. 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart ? 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's 

sight, 
Fixed in deep reverence on Minerva's fane. 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of 

light, 
AJl that remained of forms adored in vain : 



A few short years — and vanished from the 
scene, 
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot 
had been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone ! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first re- 
vered. 
And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that reared 
Thy walls ; and thou — their fate must soon 

be thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renewed in aught like 
thee? 



Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which 

moaned 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ru*n ! on thy sacred hill. 
Thy gods, thy rices, a kindred fate have 

shared : 
Yet art thou honored in each fragment still 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne, 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet 

unborn. 



Yes ! m those fragments, though by tmae de- 
faced 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlightened eye of taste, 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crushed myrtle, or the bruised rose* 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! * 
The soul of Athens lives in every line. 
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine 

XCII. 

Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train. 
The holy festival's triumphal throng, 

1 " In the most broken fragment, the same great principU 
of life can be |)roved to exist as in the most perfect figure," ii 
one of the observations of Mr. Haydoaon Uie Eljiin Marbles 



n 



MODERN GREECE. 



In fail- procession to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred symbol, move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace. 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace, 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chiefs 

proud mien — 
tiach ray of Leauty caught and mingled in the 

seme. 

XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,* 
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows ; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm,' 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole ; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear ; 
One beam aad essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 

xciv. 
O conquering Genius ! that couldst thus de- 
tain 
The subtile graces, fading as they rise, 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign, 
Ai-rest warm life in all its energies. 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine ; while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquished 

fate! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders 
birth, 
rhe realms that hailed them now scarce claimed 
a name on earth. 



Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return ? 



1 « Every tlung hero breathes life, with a veracity, with an 
exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation 
or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and mas- 
terly skill." — CAr»ovA's Litter to the Earl of Elgin. 

2 Mr. West, after expressing his admiration of the horse's 
Oead in Lord Elgin's collection of Athenian sculpture, thus 
proceeds : " We feel the same, when we view the young 
equestrian Atb33ians, and, in observing them, we are in- 
lensibly carried on with the impression that they and their 
horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when 
Uiey were converted into marble." — Wtw^'s Second Letter 
L rd Elffin 



No — we may hail again thy bright careei*, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re 

newed — 
A light inherent — let not man despair : 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued ; 
For siill is nature fair, and thought di 

vine, 
And art hath won a world in models pure ai 

thine.' 



Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced - 

Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 

Their virtual grandeur could not be erased ; 

It clothes them still, though veiled from com- 
mon eyes. 

They once were gods and heroes * — and be- 
held 

As the blest guardians of their native scene • 

And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, hav« 
swelled 

"With awe that owned their sovereignty of 
mien. 

Ages have vanished since those hearts were 
cold, 
And still those shattered forms retain their god- 
like mould. 



'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 
throne 

They have looked down on thousand storms 
of time ; 

Surviving power, and fame, and freedom 
flowTi, 

They still remained, still tranquilly sublin^e ! 

Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave- 
marred. 

The Olympian groups have sunk, and are for- 
got— 

3 Mr. Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly ins 
proved within these last twenty years, and that his opini<>r. 
is not singular — because works of such prime importance .v 
the Elgin Marble? could not remain in any country witbirr. 
a consequent improvement of the public taste and the ta'ents 
of the artist. — See the Evidence g:vcn in reply to Intern jn 
tories from the Committee on the Elgin J\LirbIe<. 

* The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. 
Lawrence, Mr. Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, 
to be of a higher cUlss than the Apollo Belvedere, "because 
there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more 
true and natural expression of the efTect of action upon the 
h iiman frame, than tlicre is in the Apollo, or any of the otlie' 
more celebrated statues." — See T%e Evidence, i^c. 



MODERN GREECE. 



01 



Not e'en their dust could weeping Athena 

guard ; 
But these -were destined to a nobler lot ! 
And thc^y have borne, to light another land, 
f he quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously 

expand. 

xcvni. 
Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but 

thine, 
Ir human works thus blending earth and 

heaven, 
Ovei nature's truth had spread that grace 

divine, 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given ? 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power 
In these last monuments of matchless days, 
Could from their ruins bid young Genius 

tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ; 
And guide deep Thought to that secluded 

height 
Where excellence is throned in purity of light ? 



And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, 
*^aught from these models, may illume the 

west? 
What British Angelo may rise to fame,^ 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, O England ! that by climes con- 
fined. 
Genius and taste diifuse a partial ray ; ' 
Deem not the eternal energies of mind 
Swayed by that sun whose doom is but decay ! 
Shall thought be fostered but by skies serene ? 
No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er 
hath been. 

1 " Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, 
sndowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to 
advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated speci- 
men of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence 
might not such a genius carry art, by tJie opportunity of 
studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned 
rhe temple of Minerva at Athens ! " — West's Second Letter 
^ itord Elgin, 

* In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, 
Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in 
the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts. 
-See Hoabe's Epochs of the Arts, pp. 84, 85. 

EXTRACTS FROM COXTEMPORAEY REVIEWS. 

Blackwood^ s Magazine. — '• In our reviews of poetical pro- 
ductions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at 
»nce more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. 
to the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while 
liey excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would re- 
vive no benefit fmm a de'ailof mediocritj', relieved only by 



But thine are treasures oft unprized, un« 

known, 
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, 
O'er whose young ardors had thy smile but 

shone, 
Their soaring flight had left a world behind ! 
And many a gifted hand, that might hr.ve 

wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone. 
Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught, 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant 

coast, 
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 

thus lost. 

CI. 

Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone ! 

Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 

Fame dwells around thee — Genius is thine 

own ; 
Call his rich blooms to life — be thou their 

sun ! 
So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep, 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains, 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace 
And cry, " This ancient soU hath nursed a glo- 
rious race ! " 



the censure of faults uncompensated by excellences. We 
have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to 
the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the 
work of the same lady who last year put her name to the 
second edition of another poem on a kindred subject, ' The 
Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy ' — namely, Mrs. 
Hemans, ol North Wales. That the author's fame has no! 
altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think 
is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experien- 
cing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had 
its day. Very recently, the reading public, as the phrase is. 
was immersed in poetry, but seems to have had enough ; 
and, excepting always that portion of it who ire found tc 
relish genuine poetry on its own intrinsic account, and will 
never tire of the exquisite enjoyment which it fffords the 
said public seldom read poetry at all. 

" But so linle is that excitement which the bulk ol readers 
covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers 
have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are 
regarding all their late rhythmical favorites alike, with thai 
sort of ingratitude with which repletion wou'd lead them to 
regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from th« 
table. But this is no proof that these great poets have for 
feited their title to be admirad. They are fixed orbs, whick 
stand just where they did, and shine rist as they were wont 



84 



TRANSLATIONS. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS. 



" Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl 'ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all' utiliti. L' Agricxltiira, W 
AJti, il Conxmercio acquistano tutto di novi luini dalle riceiche de' Saggi ; e il voler farsi un noine tenUndc di iilettain 
qutnrf' iltri v' aspira con piii giustizia giovando, senibra impresa dura e difficile." — Savioli. 



SONNET 70. 

' Na metade do ceo subido ardia." 

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless 
beam, 

The sun had reached the zenith of his reign, 
A.nd for the living fount, the gelid stream. 

Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 
'Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, 

The birds had sheltered from the scorching 

ray; 

Hushed were their melodies — and grove and 
glade 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay : 
When, through the grassy vale, a lovelorn 

swain, 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain. 
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, 
roved : 
*• Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
** By whoij\ thou art not loved ? " and thus replied 
An echo'e murmuring voice — " Thou art not 
loved . " 



SONNET 282. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 

" Na ribeira de Euprates assentado." 

Rapt in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracing days forever flown, 

although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves 
the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, 
whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, 
aiasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the 
multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. 
Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers ; and poetry, 
high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially 
•peaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet 
Boetiy will still he poetry, however it may cease to pay ; and 
although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still 
i«mall voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler 
Incense of the latter will ever be its reward. 

" Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author 
like the present, who lias had no higher aim than to regale 
Uie imagination with imagery, warm the heart with senti- 
ment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without 
the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a 
.elect tow, ann passed almost unnoticed by the multitude. 
' V\ith '.he exception of Lord Byron, who has made the 



While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 

O much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone : 
When they who caused the ceaseless tears 1 
shed, 
Thus to their captive spoke — *'^\Tay slee^ 
thy lays ? 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendor fled, 

And all thy triumphs in departed days ! 
Know'st thou not Harmony's uesistless charm 
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm ; 
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thiiii 
eye." 
With sighs I answered — " When the cup of 

woe 
Is filled, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow, 
The mourner's cure is not to sing — but d e.' 



PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 

" Se 14 no assento da maior alteza.** 

If in thy glorious home above 

Thou still recallest earthly love, 

If yet retained a thought may be 

Of him whose heart hath bled for thee ; 

Remember still how deeply shrined 
Thine image in his joyless mind : 
Each well-known scene, each former care, 
Forgotten — thou alone art there ! 

theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly con 
trasted ancient with modern Greece. 

" The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection 
has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome ; and no*h 
ing can be more spirited than the passages in which the 
author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient 
glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the m'ie*. 
celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring! 
our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, 
our extracts may be limited." 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — " The grand act of retribu- 
tion — the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre — occa 
sioned Mrs. Heraans's first publication. ' Mc dem Greece ' 
next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions ol 
beauty and pathos. It is a highly-promising symptom, thai 
each new cfCort of her genius excels its predecessor. Thi' 
present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and 
leads us to think that we have vet seen no more than \hf 
trials of her strenath " 



TRANSLATIONS. 



9J 



Remember that thine eyebeam's light 
Hath fled forever from his sight, 
And, with that vanished sunshine, lost 
Is every hope he cherished most. 

Think that his life, from thee apart. 
Is all but weariness of heart ; 
Each stream, whose music once was dear, 
Now murmurs discord to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays 
Woke him to joy in other days, 
Now, in the light of beauty drest. 
Brings but new sorrows to his breast. 

Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, 
The sun's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve. 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets, 
So altered by its long regrets ; 
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 
And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 



SONNET 271. 
" A formosura desta fresca serra." 

This mountain scene with sylvan grandeur 
crowned, 
These chestnut woods in summer verdure 
bright ; 
These founts and rivulets, whose minghng sound 

Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; 
Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray ; 
Tliis clime, where all is new ; these murmur- 
ing seas ; 
Flooks, to the fold that bend their lingering way ; 
Light clouds, contending with the genial 
breeze ; 
A.nd all that Nature's lavish hands dispense. 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, 

Ne'er in thy absence can delight my breast : 
N ought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles : 
A.nd joy may beam ; yet, 'midst her brightest 
smiles, 
A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. 



SONNET 186. 

♦' Os olhos onde O casto Amor ardia." 

rHOSE eyes, whence Love diffused his purest 



light, 



Prou i in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; 



.1 



That face, vath tints of mingling lustre bright, 

Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow 
The rich redundance of that golden hair, 

Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; 
That fonn so graceful, and that hand so fair. 

Where now those treasures? — moulderinj! 
into clay! 
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, 
Hath young Perfection withered in its morn, 

Touched by the hand that gathers but tv 
blight ! 
O, how could Love survive his bitter tears ! 
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres 

But for his o-vvn sad fate, thus wrapped in 
starless night ! 



SONNET 108. 
" Brandas aguus do Tejo que passando." 

Fair Tajo ! thou whose calmly-flowing tide 

Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide, 

Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs 
and swains. 
Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps agaii. 

Shall tread thy shores ; and while to part 1 
mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain. 

No dream that whispers — I may yet return 
My froA\'ning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings and ordains despair. 

Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine 
And I must vainly mourn th'e scenes I fly. 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigl , 

And blend my tears with other waves thai 
thine ! 



SONNET 23. 

TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 
" Chara minha iniiniga, era cuja mao." 

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gaye 

O fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, 

Yields not one speU to soothe my deep despaii 
Yes ! the wild seas intomb those charms divine 

Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; 
But while one ray of life or thought is mine, 

Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my sou] 
And if the tones of my uncult ired song 
Have power the sad remembrance to prolonj?, 



i»A 



TRANSLATJOINS. 



Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure : 
Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, 
Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, 

While Time, and Love, and Memory shall 
endure. 



SONNET 19. 

" Alma minha gennl, que te partiste." 

Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 

The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
How is yon Heaven eternally thine own. 

Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here ! 
0, if allowed in thy divine abode 

Of aught on earth an image to retain. 
Remember still the fervent love which glowed 

In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 
And if thou deemed that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 

Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies ! 
0, ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away, 
That I may join thee in those realms of day, 

Swiftly as thou hast vanished from mine eyes. 



* Q,ue estranho caso de amor \ " 

How strange a fate in love is mine ! 

How dearly •prized the pains I feel ! 
Pangs, that to rend my soul combine. 

With avarice I conceal : 
For did the world the tale divine. 
My lot would then be deeper woe — 
And mine is grief that none must know. 

To mortal ears I may not dare 

Unfold the cause, the pain 1 prove ; 
'Twould plunge in ruin and despair 

Or me, or her I love. 
My soul dehghts alone to bear 
Her silent, unsuspected woe, 
And none shall pity, none shall know. 

Thus buried in my bosom's um, 

Thus in my inmost heart concealed, 
Let me alone the secret mourn. 

In pangs unsoothed and unrevealed. 
For whether happiness or woe. 
Or life or death its power bestow. 
It is what none on earth must know. 



SONNET 58. 

" Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata." 

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 

Yet long enough protract his votary's days 
To see the lustre from those eyes depart. 

The loadstars ' now that fascinate my gaze 
To see rude Time the living roses blight 

That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, 
And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright 

To silver}' whiteness, from their native gold j 
O, then thy heart an equal change will prove. 
And mourn the coldness that repelled my lov&> 

When tears and penitence will all be vain • 
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by. 
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, 

Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. 



SONNET 178. 
" J5. cantei, jd chorei a dura guerra." 

Oft have I sung and mourned the bitter woes 

Which love for years have mingled with mj 
fate. 
While he the tale forbade me to disclose. 

That taught his votaries their deluded state. 
Nymphs, who dispense Castalia's living stream, 

Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal, 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, 

Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : 
That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay — 

How false his smiles, his promises how vain ! 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre, 

Forever hushed, shall slumber in your fane. 



SONNET 80. 
" Como quando do mar tempestuoso." 

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave. 
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main. 

But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave, 
Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 

How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 
No more shall lure him from the smiles ol 
home ! 



" Your eyes are loao stare " — shakspbaks. 



tra:nslations. 



Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 
Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to 
roam. 
Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 
Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, 

Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free : 
Bxit my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 
Still draws me back where countless perils reign. 
And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



SONNET 239. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 
" Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando." 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 

Of vain desire, we sat ; remembering thee, 
hallowed Sion ! and the vanished years. 

When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free : 
Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 

Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; 
\Mien songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, 

Our foes demanded from their captive band. 
• How shall our voices, on a foreign shore," 
(We answered those whose chains the exile 
wore,) 

•* The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew ? 
If I forget, 'midst grief and wasting toil, 
ITiee, O Jerusalem ! my native soil ! 

May rmj right hand forget its cunning too ! " 



SONNET 128. 

" Huma admiravel herva se conliece." 

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour 
to hour 

Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, 
Wakes when Creation nails his dawning power. 

And most expands when most her idol burns : 
But when he seeks the bosom of the deep. 

His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; 
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolored 
weep. 

Still fondly pining for the vanished ray. 
Thou whom I love, the daystar of my sight ! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 

Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, 
A.nd, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, 

Born but to live within thine ev^beam's 



power. 



" Polomeu apartamento " 

Amidst the bitter tears that fell 
In anguish at my last farewell, 
0, who would dream that joy could dweU, 

To make that moment bright ? 
Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say. 
Which then could most my bosom sway. 

Affliction or delight ? 

It was when Hope, oppressed with woes 
Seemed her dim eyes in death to close* 
That rapture's brightest beam arose 

In sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus, if my soul survive that hour. 
'Tis that my fate o'ercame the powei 

Of anguish with delight. 

For O, her love, so long unknown, 
She then confessed was all my own, 
And in that parting hour alone 

Revealed it to my sight. 
And now^ what pangs will rend my soul, 
Should fortune still, with stern control, 

Forbid me this delight ! 

I know not if my bliss were vain. 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, 

When exiled from her sight , 
Yet now what double woe for mt 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The dayspring of delight ! 



SONNET 206 

" Quern diz que Amor he falso, O engai.o* 

He who proclaims that Love is light and raitL 

Capricious, cruel, falso in all his ways. 
Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, 

Too justly finds him all he thus portrays : 
For Love is pitying. Love is soft and kind. 

Believe not him who dares the tale oppose ; 
O, deem him one whom stormy passions blin i, 

One to whom earth and heaven may well ^ 
foes. 
If Love bring evils, view them all in nic ; 
Here let the world his utmost rigor see. 

His utmost power exerted to annoy : 
But all his ire is still the ire of love ; 
And such delight in all his woes I prove, 

I would not change their prtngs for aiight oi 
other joy. 



13 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SONNET 133. 
" Doces e claras agiias do Mondego." 

Waves of Mondego ! brilliant and serene, 

Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly 
strays. 
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, 

Witching my soul, in long- departed days ; 
Yes, I forsake your banks ! but still my heart 

Shall bid remembrance all your charms re- 
store, 
And, suffering not one image to depart. 

Find lengthening distance but endear you 
more. 
Let Fortune's will, throAigh many a future day, 
To distant realms this mortal frame convey. 

Sport of each wind, and tossed on every wave ; 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, 
On thought's light pinion still shall fly to you. 

And still, bright waters ! in your ciurent lave. 



SONNET 181. 
" Onde acharei lugar tao apartado." 

Where shall I find some desert scene so rude, 

Where loneliness so undisturbed may reign, 
That not a step shall ever there intrude 

Of roving man, or nature's savage train — 
Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear. 

Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb. 
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, 

But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom ? 
That there, 'midst frowning rocks, alone with 

grief 
Intombed in life, and hopeless of relief. 

In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. 
For O, since nought my sorrows can allay, 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day. 

And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



SONNET 278. 
" Eu vivia de lagriraas isento." 

Exempt from every grief, 'twas mine to live 
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 

A. thousand joys propitious Love can give 
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of 
mine. 

SoTind by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 
I brealhed no sigh for fortune or for power ; 



No care intruding to disturb my breaist, 

I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower 
But Fate, such transports eager to destroy. 
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy. 
And bade the phantoms of deUght begone • 
Bade hope and happiness at once depart, 
And left but memory to distract my heajl;, 
Retracing every hour of bliss forever flowc 



" Mi nueve y dulre querella." 

No searching eye can pierce the veil 
That o'er my secret love is throA^Ti ; 

No outward signs reveal its tale, 
But to my bosom known. 

Thus, like the spark whose vivid light 

In the dark flint is hid from sight 
It dwells within, alone. 



METASTASIO. 

" Dunque si sfoga m pianto." 

In tears, the heart oppressed with grief 

Gives language to its woes ; 
In tears, its fulness finds relief, 

When rapture's tide o'erflows ! 

Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek 

On this terrestrial sphere 5 
When e'en Delight can only speak. 

Like Sorrow — in a tear ? 



" Al furor d' avversa Sorte." 

He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien. 
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude. 

Whose so\il hath learned, through many a try 
ing scene. 
To smile at fate, and suff'er unsubdued. 

In the rough school of billows, clouds, andstorm* 
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art 

Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, fonr*) 
The lofty spirit and enduring heait ! 



" duella onda che ruina •' 

The torrent wave, that breaks with fore* 
Impetuous down the Alpine height. 



TRANSLATIONS 9i 


Complains and struggles in its course, 




But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 


"ParIaglid'unperiglio.»' 


The stream in shadowy valley deep 


WouLDST thou to Love of danger speak * 


May slumber in its narrow bed : 


Veiled are his eyes, to perils blind ! 


But silent, in unbroken sleep, 


Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek ? 


Its lustre and its life are fled. 


He is a child of way^vard mind ! 




But with a doubt, a jealous fear. 




Inspire him once — the task is o'er ; 


"Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie." 


His mind is keen, his sight is clear, 




No more an infant, blind no more. 


8wEET rose ! whose tender foliage to expand 




Her fostering dews the Morning lightly 




shed, 




Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms 


" Sprezza il furor del vento." 


fanned. 




And o'er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread : 


Unbending 'midst the wintry skies, 


That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the 


Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, 


ground, 


And stern in rugged strength, defies 


To brighter worlds thy favored charms hath 


The rushing of the storm. 


borne ; 




Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crowned, 


Then severed from his native shore. 


There breathe and bloom, released from every 


O'er ocean worlds the sail to bear. 


thorn, 


Still with those winds he braved before, 


Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower ! 


He proudly struggles there 


Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 




Sheltered with tenderest care from frost or 




shower, 




And each rough season's chill vicissitude, 


« Sol pu6 dir che sia contento." 


Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume 




[mmortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. 


0, THOSE alone whose severed hearts 




Have mourned through lingering years in vain 




Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, 




When Fate unites them once again. 


Che eperi, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine." 






Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, 


ffo&TUNE ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 


Whose language hails that moment bright, 


Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like 


When past afflictions but endear 


these ? 


The presence of delight ! 


rhink'st thou that I thy threatening mien shall 




dread. 




O.' toil and pant thy waving locks to seize ? 




Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, 




For vassal spirits that confess thy sway ! 


" Ah ! frenate 1© piante imbelle ! ** 


Wy constant soul should triumph unsubdued, 




Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 


Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrvsi I 


Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried ? 


I go misfortune to defy. 


No ! I have long thine utmost power defied. 


To smile at fate with proud disdain. 


And drawn fresh energies from every fight. 


To triumph — not to die I 


Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the 




wheel, 


I with fresh laurels go to crown 


With each successive shock the tempered steel 


My closing days at last. 


More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling 


Securing all the bright renown 


brigh' 


Acqviired in dangers past. 



too 



TRANSLATIONS. 



YINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

" Italia I Italia ! O tu cui dife la sorte." 

[talia ! O Italia ! thou so graced 
With ill-starred beauty, which to thee hath 
been 
A do ,ver whose fatal splendor may be traced 
In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mein ; 
0, that more strength, or fewer charms were 
thine ! 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee 
less. 
Who seem tc worship at thy radiant shrine, 
Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bit- 
terness ! 
Not then would foreign hosts have drained the 

tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed : 
Nor from the Alps would legions, still re- 
newed. 
Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield an alien 

brand. 
And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued ! 



PASTORINI. 

" Geneva mia ! se con asciutto ciglio." 

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 

My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye. 
Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold ; 

But know — I deem rebellious every sigh ! 
Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey. 

Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might ! 
And in each trace of devastation's way, 

Thy worth, tl y courage, meet my wandering 
sight. 
Triumphs far less than sufi'ering virtue shine ! 
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine. 

While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 
And lo ! fair Liberty rejoicing flies 
To kiss each noble relic, %vhile she cries, 

*• Bail ! though in ruins, thou wert ne'er in 
chains ' " 



LOPE DE VEGA. 

" Estese el cortesano," 

Lbt the vain courtier waste his days, 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 



The couch of down, the board of costlv fare j 
Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand 
That waves the sceptre of command, 

And rear full many a palace in the air ; 
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined. 
The glowing sun, the genial wind. 

And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned ; 
And prize far more, in peace and health, 
Contented indigence than joyless wealth. 

Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend, 

At Grandeur's altar to attend. 
Reflect his smUe, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame's bright phantom. Glory's deathlcM 
crown ! 

Nectareous draughts and viands pure 

Luxuriant nature will insure ; 

These the clear fount and fertile field 

Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 

And when repose and visions reign. 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the 
swain. 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENl. 
" No baxes temeroso, O peregrino ! " 

Pause not with lingering foot, pilgrim ! here ; 

Pierce the deep shadows of theanountain side • 
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear — 

To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode. 

So near the mansions of supreme delight ; 
Pause not, but tread this consecrated road — 

'Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. 
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 

How many a fountain gUtters down the hill ! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play. 

Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou lin- 
ger still ? 
O, enter there, where, freed from human strife 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 



BELLA CASA. 

VENICE. 

" Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colt©.'* 

These marble domes, by wealth and geniui 
graced, 
With sculptured forms, bright hues -and Pa^ 
rian stone. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



101 



V\''ere once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste, 

Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 
Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous 
train 
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign. 
They sought these island precincts — to be 
free. 
Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 
Fraud, more than death, abhorred each artless 
breast : 
0, now, since fortune gilds their brightening 

day, 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
O'er whelmed by luxury, and by wealth op- 
pressed ! 

IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOG- 
LIO. 

" L' aniina bella, che dal vero Eliso." 

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high. 

Descends like dayspring to my favored sight, 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, 

Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright ! 
But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, 

That smile of peace ! she bids my doubts de- 
part. 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, 

And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 
Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold. 

To soar with her and mingle with the blessed ! 
But ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 
iTiat I, in vain aspiring to the skies, 

Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds 
depressed. 



QUEVEDO. 

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 
*' Buscas en Roma i Roma, O peregrine." 

A.MID3T these scenes, pilgrim ! seek'st thou 
Rome .? 
Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is 
fled; 
Bier silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 

Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 
Chat hill, where Caesars dwelt in other days. 
Forsaken mourns, where once it towered sub- 
lime; 



Each mouldering medal now far less displays 

The triumphs won by Latium than by Time 
Tiber alone survives — the passing wave 
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her 
grave. 
Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanea 
Rome ! of thine ancient grandeur all is passed. 
That seemed for years eternal framed to last : 
Nought but the wave — a fugitive — remainn 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 

" Tu, que la dulce vlda en tiernas anos." 

Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted 
bowers. 

In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glo^^^ng 
morn. 
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers. 

For the rude convent garb and covich of thorn : 
Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, 

Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs 

To shun the midnight perils of the main - 
Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pou*, 

While on thy soul the beams of glory rise ! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore 

With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, 
O, how shouldst thou the exulting paean raise, 
Now heaven's bright harbor opens on thy gaze 



TORQUATO TASSO. 
"Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa." 

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose 

To the mild sunshine only half displayed, 

That shunned its bashful graces to disclose. 

And in its veil of verdure sought a shade • 
Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught V^ 
bright,) 
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, 
O'er vale and mountain shedding dew erd 
light. 
Now riper years have doomed no grace to 

fade ; 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride arrayed 

Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower. 
And the bright daystar, in its noontide hour, 
More Drilliant shines, in gonial radiaiiia 
warm. 



Hit 



rRANSLATlONS 



BERNARDO TASSO. 

" Caest oinbra che giammai non vide il sole." 

rni* green recess, where through the bowery 
gloom 
Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam 
played, 
Where violet beds in soft luxuriance bloom 

'Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade ; 
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain 
steals, 
"Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it 
flows. 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals 

Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; 
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
liod of soft slumbers and of visions fair ! 
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close. 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from teardrops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 

" Chi vuol veder quantunque puo natura." 

Tho\; that wouldst mark, in form of human birth. 

All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Home, gaze on her, the daystar of the earth, 

Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind: 
And haste ! for Death, who spares the guilty long, 

First calls the brightest and the best away j 
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng. 

The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay ! 
Hasts ! and each outward charm, each mental 

grace, 
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace. 

Model of loveliness, for earth too fair ! 
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays. 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze : 

But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



" Se lamentar augelli, O verdi fronde." 

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours 
Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive 
bird; 
Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with 
flowers, 
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard ; 
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 
I see and hear : though dwelling far above. 



Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, 

Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. 
" Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,' 
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) 

"While from thine eyes the tear uncea«inj 
flows ? 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, 
Died, to be deathless ; and on heavenly light 
W^hose eyes but opened, when they seemed 
to close ! '' 



VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO 

" O Muerte ! que sueles ser." 

Thou, the stern monarch of dismay, 
Whom nature trembles to survey, 
O Death ! to me, the child of grief. 
Thy welcome power would bring relief. 

Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein ; 
The pangs that bid existence close, 
Ah ! sure are far less keen than those 

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 

" O Zefiretto, che movendo vai." 

Sylph of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions lighl 

Wave gently round the tree I planted here, 
Sacred to her whose soul hath winged its fligh^ 

To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; 
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale ! 

To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour 
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail 

To rend its honors from the sylvan bower. 
Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, 

Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! 
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind. 
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, 

But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild 
and free ! 



GESNER. 



MORNING SONG. 
•' Willltoinmen, fruhe naorgensonn '* 

Hail ! morning sun, thus early bright ; 
Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger daj 



TRANSLATIONS. 10s 


rhrough the dark woods that fringe the height, 


See ! now with sudden rage he burns. 


Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. 


Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. 




0, doubt not then — 'tis Love. 


Grigt.t on the dew it sparkles clear, 




Bright on the water'wS glitl»5ring fall. 


He comes, without the bow and dart, 


Ind lile, and joy. and healtn appear, 


That spare not e'en the purest heart j 


Sweet Morning ! at thy call. 


His looks the traitor prove ; 




That glance is fire, that mien is guil». 


No-vi thy fresh breezes lightly spring 


Deceit is lurking in that smile — 


From beds of fragrance, where they lay, 


0, trust him not — 'tis Love, 


And roving wild on dewy wing. 




Drive slumber far away. 






CHAULIEU. 


Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat. 




Now from each mind withdraw their spell ; 


♦ Grotte, d' ou sort ce clair niisseau.'' 


While the young loves delighted meet, 


Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, 


On Kosa's cheek to dwell. 


Its margin fringed with moss and flowers. 




Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 


Speed, zephyr ! kiss each opening flower. 


Peace to my musing hours. 


Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; 




Then -vving thy way to Rosa's bower, 


Sweet Fontenay ! where first for me 


Ere her light sleep is flown. 


The dayspring of existence rose. 




Soon shall my dust return to thee. 


There o'er her downy pillow fly, 


And 'midst my sires repose. 


Wake the sweet maid to life and day ; 




Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, 


Muses ! that watched my childhood's mom, 


And o'er her bosom play ; 


'Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye 




Fair trees ! that here beheld me born. 


And whisper, when her eyes unveil, 


Soon shall ye see me die. 


That I, since morning's earliest call, 




Have sighed her name to every gale 




Ev the lone waterfall. 


GARCILASO DE VEGA. 




" Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera." 




Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May 


GERMAN SONG. 


Ere envious Age is hastening on his way 




With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteoui 


*« Madchen, lernet Amor kennen." 






brow; 


Listen, fair maid ! my song shall teU 


The rose vnH fade when storms assail the year, 


How Love may still be known full well — 


And Time, who changoth not his swift career, 


His looks the traitor prove. 


Constant in this, will change all else below 1 


l;ost thou not see that absent smile. 




Tbjit fiery glance replete with guile ? 




0, doubt not then — 'tis Love. 


LORENZO DE MEDICI. 


When varying stiD the sly disguise, 


VIOLETS. 


Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, 


•* Non di verdi giardin omati e coItL' 


Or mth complaint would move ; 


We come not, fair one ! to thy hand of sno\v 


To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, 


From the soft scenes by Culture's hand sa 


Changing each hour, he knows not why, 


rayed ; 


0, doubt not then — 'tis Lo\e. 


Not reared in bowers where gales of fragrance 




blow. 


There's magic in his every wile. 


But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade 


His lips, well practised to beguile, 


There once, as Venus wandered, lost in woe, 


Breathe roses when they move ; 


To seek Adonis through th' entangled wood 



(0^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurked below 
With print relentless drew celestial blood ! 

Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms 
fraught, 

Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, 
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes ; 

We were not fostered in our shadowy vales 

By guided rivulets or summer gales — 

Our dew and air have been Love's balmy tears 
and sighs ! 



PINDEMONTE. 

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. 
" Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi ? " 

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away ? 

What lures thee from the banquet of the skies ? 
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day 

For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and 
sighs ? 
thou, Canova ! soaring high above 

Italian art — with Grecian magic vying ! 
We knew thy marble glowed with life and love. 

But who had seen thee image footsteps flying ? 
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing 
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying 

In many a line of undulating grace ; 
While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, 
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, 

One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause 
to trace. 

[A volume of translations, published in 1818, might have 
ieen called, by anticipation, " Lays of many Lands." At the 



time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derivet 
from classical subjects. The " graceful superstitions " of 
Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Koine, held an influ 
ence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of th« 
works of this period — such as "The Restoration of the 
Works of Art to Italy," " Modern Greece," and several of 
the poems which formed the volume entitled " Tales and 
Historic Scenes." 

"Apart from all intercourse," says Delta, " with literary 
society, and acquainted only by name and occasional corre- 
spondence with any of the distinguisJied authors of whom 
England has to boast, Mrs. Hemaiis, during the progress of 
her poetical career, had to contend v.ith more and greatei 
obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. 
To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own 
merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circum- 
stances, thai she was indebted for the extensive share of 
popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. 
From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems 
which first permanently elevated her among the writers of 
her age, — the ' Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,' 
and ' Modern Greece.' In these the maturity of her Intel-* 
lect appears ; and she makes us feel, that she has marked 
out a path for herself through the regions of song. The ver- 
sification is high toned and musical, in accordance with the 
sentiment and subject ; and in every page we have evidence^ 
not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration anC 
research. These efforts were favorably noticed by Lord By- 
ron ; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber 
and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her 
on by their approbation : the reputation which, through 
years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, some- 
times with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, 
looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length 
unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by tlie world ; 
and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The 
Translations from Camoens, the prize poem of Wallace, as 
also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and 
the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary 
career." — Biographical Sketch, prefixed to Poetical Remains, 
1836. 

In reference to the same period of Mrs. Ilemans's career, 
the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbuiy ^afterwards 
Mrs. Fletcher) has the following judicious observations : — 

" At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classi 
cal, and highly polished ; but it wanted warmth : it partook 
more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fet- 
tered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon 
her memory when she might have relied upon her imagina- 
tion. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her owu 
admission, 'loved to repose under the shadow of mighty 
names.' " — athenceum, Feb. 1831.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



LINES 

WBITTBir IN A HEBMITAOS ON THE SEA SHOKE. 

O wanderer ! would thy heart forget 
Each earthly passion and regret, 
And would thy wearied spirit rise 
To commune with its native skies ; 
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet 
To Knger in this calm retreat ; 
A.nd give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 
■imidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 



Unmixed with aught of meaner tone, 
Here Nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, 
Is rushing on its wing of power, 
And spirits of the deep awake. 
And surges foam, and billows break, 
And rocks and ocean caves around 
Reverberate each awful sound — 
That mighty voice, with all its dread con^ro^ 
To loftiest thought shall wake th» thrilling 
soul. 



^nSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



loa 



But when no more the sea winds rave, 
"When peace is brooding on the wave, 
And from earth, air, and ocean rise 
No sounds but plaintive melodies ; 
Soothed by their softly-mingling swell. 
As daylight bids the world farewell, 
The rustling wood, the dying breeze, 
The fj'int low rippling of the seas, 
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 



Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung ? 
Hast thou some grief that none may know, 
Some lonely, secret, silent woe ? 
Or have thy fond affections fled 
From earth, to slumber with the dead ? — 
O, pause a while — the world disown, 
And dwell with Nature's seK alone ! 
And though no more she bids arise 
Thy soul's departed energies, 
And though thy joy of life is o'er, 
Beyond her magic to restore ; 
Vet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, 
iLnd soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 

No bitter tears for thee be shed, 

Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! 
With flowers alone Ave strew thy bed, 

O blest departed one ! 
Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 
Blu&^ed into dawn and passed away. 

Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 

To stain thy cherub soul and form, 
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower 

That never felt a storm ! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 
All that it knew from birth to death. 

Thou wort so like a form of light, 

That Heaven benignly called thee hence, 
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 

O'er thy sweet innocence : 
And thou, that brighter home to bless, 
Art passed, with all thy loveliness ! 

O, hadst thou still on earth remained, 

Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief ! 
How soon thy brightness- had been stained 
W th passion or with grief ! 
U 



Now not a sullying breath can rise 
To dim thy glory in the skies. 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb — 

No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 
Ah, fitter far the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews must be 
The only emblems meet for thoe. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine. 

Adorned with Nature's brightest wreath. 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe ; 
And oft, upon the midnight air. 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 

And O, sometimes in visions blest, 

Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; 
And bear, from thine own world of rest, 

Some balm for human woes ! 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine to messengers of heaven ? * 



INVOCATION. 

Hushed is the world in night and sleep — 

Earth, sea, and air are still as death , 
Too rude to break a calm so deep 
Were music's faintest breath. 
Descend, bright visions ! from aerial bowers, 
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours. 

In hope or fear, in toil or pain. 

The weary day have mortals passed ; 
Now, dreams of bliss ! be yours to reign. 
And all your spells around them cast ; 
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes th* 

tear, 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere 

O, bear your softest balm to those 

Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead . 
To them that world of peace disclose 
Where the bright soul is fled : 
Where Love, immortal in his native clime. 
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time 

Or to his loved, his distant land 
On your light wings the exile bear, 

To feel once more his heart expand 
In his own genial mountain air ; 

1 Vide Annotr.ion from Quarterly Review, , ttt 



106 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, 
\nd bless each note, as heaven's own music 
sweet. 

But O, with fancy's brightest ray, 

Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
And bowers of Eden bloom ! 
Ajid waft his spirit to its native skies 
Who finds no charm in life's realities. 

No voicf is on the air of night, 

Through folded leaves no mnrmurs creep, 
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions ! from your airy bower : 
Dark, silent, solemn is your favorite hour. 



TO THE MEMOET OF 

GENERAL SIR E— D P— K— M.^ 

Brave spirit ! mourned with fond regret, 

Lost in life's pride, in valor's noon, 
O, who could deem thy star should set 
So darkly and so soon ! 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind 

Which marked and closed thy brief career, 
A.nd the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, 
Lies withered on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom. 

The soldier's tear thy meed shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 
Might Fate have reared for thee. 

1 Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer 
to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head 
of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New 
Orleans, 8th January, 1814. " Six thousand combatants on 
the British side," says Mr. Alison, " were in the field : a 
Blender force to attack double their number, intrenched to 
the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with 
heavy artillery." — History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743. 

Tile death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official 
account of General Keane, communicating the result of the 
action : — " The advancing columns were discernible from 
the enemy's line at more than two hundred yards' distance, 
Wh3n a destructive fire w;is instantly opened, not only from 
ill parts of the enemy's line, but from the battery on the 
•pposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, 
during his short but brilliant career, was alw.iys foremost in 
the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the 
front, to animate his men bv liis presence. He had reached 
the crest of the glacis, and was in tlie act of cheering his 
troops with his hat ofl^, when he received two balls, one in 
tne knee and another in the body He fell into the arms 
•)f Major Mac<lougal, his aido-de-camp, and almost instantly 
•Tpired." — Edinr Jin R »■ sf. 1815, p. 35G. 



Thou shouldst have died, O high-sotiled chiei 

In those bright days of glory fled. 
When triumph so prevailed o'er grief 
We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame ! each teardr«p then 

Was worthy of a warrior's grav? 
When shall afi'ection weep again 
So proudly o'er the brave ? 

There, on the battle fields of Spain, 

'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain scene, 
Or on Vitoria's blood-red plain. 
Meet had thy death bed been. 

We mourn not that a hero's life 

Thus in its ardent prime should closw 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, 
But died 'midst conquered foes ! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame 

In that last moment cheered thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name, 
That ne'er may be forgot : 

And many a tale of triumph won 

Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear, 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO THK UEMOBT Or 

SIR H— Y E— LL— S, 

WHO FELL IN THK BATTLE OF WATEBLOO. 

" Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown if 
around them." — OssiAN. 

Weep'st thou for him, whose doom was sealet 
On England's proudest battle fiela ? 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full resistless tide ? 

O, mourn him not 
By deeds like his that fieAl was won, 
And Fate could yield to Valor's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry, 
He saw the vanquished eagles fly ; 
And envied be his death of fame ! 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name 

That nought shall dim • 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay. 

Weep not for him ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



10. 



And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan ; 
A hero claims far loftier tone ! 
O, proudly shall the war song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour, 
When England, 'midst the battle storm ■ 
The avenging angel — reared her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet; gallant heart ! to sweU thy praise, 
"V ain were the minstrel's noblest lays j 
Since he, the soldier's guiding star, 
The Victor chief, the lord of war, 

Hias owned thy fame : 
And i), like his approving word. 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name ? 



GUERILLA SONG. 

rOrUDED ON THE STOEY EELATED OF THE SPANISH 
PATEIOT MINA. 

0, FORGET not the hour when through forest and 

vale 
vVe returned with our chief to his dear native 

haUs ; 
Through the woody sierra there sighed not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement 

walls ; 
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light. 
Hound the home of the valiant, that rose on our 

sight. 

We entered that home — all was loneliness round. 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; 
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound : 
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 
For the spoilers had passed, like the poison wind's 

breath, 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

0, frrgot not that hour — let its image be near. 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our 

rest, 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear. 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each 

breast. 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
3'er the plains of the olive and hiUs of the vine. 



THE AWED INDIAN. 

Warriors ! my noon of life is past, 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 



I crouch before the y, Intry blast, 

Amidst my tribe I dwell alone ; 
The heroes of my youth are fled, 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 

My kindred chiefs in days of yore ! 
Ye fill an unremembered grave. 

Your fame, your deeds, are known t.\ 
more. 
The records of your wars are gone, 
Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth. 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 

Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time. 

With him, ye sons of former days ! 

Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes, that hailed your spirits' flame, 
Still kindling in the combat's shock, 

Have seen, since darkness veiled your famv 
Sons of the desert and the rock ' 

^Lnother and another race 

Rise to the battle and the chase 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 

Fearless of heart, and fii m. of hand ! 
O, let me join their spirits lied — 

O, send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart - 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 

The glory of this arm is flown ; 
Why should the feeble linger here 

When all the pride of life is gont.^ 
Warriors ! why still the stroke deny > 
Think ye Ontara fears to die ? 

He feared not in his flower of days. 

When strong to stem the torrent's forct. 

When through the desert's pathless mase 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 

When war was sunshine to his sight, 

And the wild hurricane delight ! 

Shall, then, the warrior tremble now f 
Now when his envied strength is o'er — 

Hung on the pine his idle bow, 
His pirogue useless on the shore ? 

When age hath dimmed his failing eye, 

ShaU he, the joyless, fear to die ? 



■08 



MISCELI A.NEOUS POEMS. 



Sons of the brave ! delay no more 
The spirits of my kindred call. 

'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
O, bid the aged cedar fall ! 

To join the brethren of his prime, 

The mighty of departed time. 



EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 

BoPT skies of Italy ! how richly dressed, 

Smile these wild scenes in your purpurea! 
glow ! 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 

Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! 
Yon torrent, foaming do\NTi the granite steep, 

Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 

Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain 
stream. 
Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray. 

That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
i'roxa rock and torrent fade the tints away, 

And all is wrapped in twilight's deep repose : 
While through the pine wood gleams the vesper 

star. 
And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN 
" WAVERLEY." • 

Son of the mighty and the free ! 

High-minded leader of the brave ! 
Was it for lofty chief like thee 

To fill a nameless grave ? 
O, if amidst the valiant slain 

The warrior's bier had been thy lot. 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain, 
W^e then had mourned thee not. 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame. 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; 

1 Tliese very beaTitiful stanzas first appeared in the Edin- 
burgli Annual Refiister for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following 
Interesting heading : — 

" A literary friend of ours received these verses with a 
*.'.?r of the following tenor : — 

" ' ^ very inffftiious- young friend of mine has just sent me 
the encased, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives 
that cliarming work ; and if in any future edition you should 
'ike to insert <Ae Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do 
ionor to 

Your Sincere Admirer.^ 

" The individual to whom this obliging letter was ad- 
•sjed, having no claim to the honor which i.s there done 



Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, 

The watchword of Despair ! 
Yet, O, if gallant sjpirit's power 

Hath e'er ennobled death like thine, 
Then glory marked thy parting hour, 

Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 

But cannot chase their silent gloom ; 

Those beams that gild thy native walls 

Are sleeping on thy tomb ! 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, 

Thy green woods wave in vernal air. 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile : 
Not e'en thy dust is there. 

On thy blue hiUs no bugle sound 

Is mingling with the torrent's roar ; 
Unmarked, the wild deer sport around : 

Thou lead'st the chase no more ! 
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still. 

Those halls where pealed the choral stiain 
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill, 
And all is hushed again. 

No banner from the lonely tower 

Shall wave its blazoned folds on high. 
There the tall grass and summer flower 

Unmarked shall spring and die. 
No more thy bard for other ear 

Shall wake the harp once loved by thine - 
Hushed be the strain thou canst not hear. 
Last of a mighty line ! 



THE CRUSADERS' WAR SONCi 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high — 

Lead on to Salem's towers ! 
"Who would not deem it bliss to die, 

Slain in a cause like ours ? 
The brave, who sleep in soil of thine, 
Die not intombed, but shrined, O Palestine ^ 



him, does not posses ! the means of publishing the ver»"s i; 
the popular novel alluded to. But that the pr.ilic may sns 
tain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley ma> 
be aware of the hone r intended him, our correspondent has 
ventured to send the rerses to our Register." 

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the 
" very ingenious young friend of mine " and " your sincert 
admirer," on the one hand, and the disclaimer by " a Hl 
erary frvnd of ours," on the other, there can be little doub* 
that the Dirge was sent by Mrs. Hemaiis to Sir Walter, the» 
Mr. Scott, aiNl by him to the Register — of which he hiit 
self wrote that year the historical department. — P'ide'^AiCk 
liart's Life of Scott, vol iv. i>. 80. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IDs 



Souls of the slain in holy war ! 

Look from your sainted rest. 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, 

To mingle with the blest ; 
TeU us how short the death pang s power, 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 

Pour forth your loftiest lays ; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
rh' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour, 

The wildest rage of fight, 
Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 

And nerve our hearts with might. 
Envied be those for thee that fall. 
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

"For them no need that sculptured tomb 

Should chronicle their fame, 
Or pyramid record their doom, 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine. 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower ! 
"We burn to mingle in the strife, 
Where hut to die insures eternal life. 



THE DEATH OE CLANRONALD. 

[It was in the battle of SherifTmoor that young Clanronald 
fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His 
death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But 
Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started 
from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, 
cried out, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourn- 
ing ! " The Highlanders received a new impulse from his 
words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all 
hefore them. — See the (Quarterly Review article of " Cullo- 
den Papers."] 

0, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 

Still fearless and first in the combat he fell ; 

But we paused not one teardrop to shed o'er 
the spot, 

We spared not one moment tc murmur, " Fare- 
well." 

We heard but the battle word given by the chief, 

* To- day for revenge, and to-m rrow for grief! " 



And wildly, Clanronald ! we echosd the vow, 
With the tear on our check, and the sword in 

our hand , 
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for the€ 

now. 
For well has thy death been avenged by thj 

band, 
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the 

chief, 
*♦ To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! * 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call, 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the 

brave ; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave, 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
*' To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! " 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set ; 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet ! 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! " 



TO THE EYE. 

Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, 
Where fancy's fire, affection's mental beam, 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart. 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart : 
Thy power, bright orb ! what bosom hath not felt, 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt ! 
And, by some spell of undefined control. 
With magnet influence touch the secret soul ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth : 
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway. 
Hath taught e'en thee to flatter &i. i DCtray, 
Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee io revealj 
Or speak one thought that interest would con* 

ceal. 
While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror gives 
But to reflect the purity of heaven, 
0, then how lovely, there unveUed, to trace 
Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace 

When Genius lends thee all his living light, 
Where the full beams of intellect unite ; 



no 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



When love illumes thee with his varying ray, 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play ; 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, 
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews ; 
8till does thy powei^, whose all- commanding 

spell 
Car pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
Bid some new feeling to existence start 
From its deej) slumbers in the inmost heart. 

And O, when thought, in ecstasy sublime. 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 
^^As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality ;) 
Who does not OAvn, that through thy lightning 

beams 
A. flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams ? 
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, 
rhe vestal ray, the spark that cannot die ! 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 

Life's parting beams were in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue, 
When round him, pealing to the sky, 
The shout of victory rung ! 

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 

A smile so bright illumed his face — 
O, never, of the light it shed, 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death whose rapture high 

Transcended all that life could yield ; 
His warmest prayer was so to die, 
On the red battle field ! 

And they may feel, who loved him most, 

A pride so holy and so pure : 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 
A treasure thus secure ! 



STANZAS 



THE DEATH OP THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

[" H41as! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu'on 
»eut irnaginer "ie plus ^lorieux. . . . Le pass6 et le present 
ions garantissoient i'avenir. . Telle 6toit l'agr6able his- 
loire «jue nous falsions ; et pour at 3v«r ces nobles projets, 



il n'y avoit que la duree de sa vie ; dent nous lie croyioio 
pas devoir etre en peine, car qui efit pu seulement pensei 
que les ann^es eussent du manquer Jiune jeunesse quisem 
bloit si vive ? " — Bossuet.] 



Marked ye the mingling of the city's throng 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright 
Prepare the pageant and the choral song, 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of ftstal light ! 
And hark ! what rumor's gathering sound u 

nigh ? 
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep ? 
Away ! be hushed, ye sounds of revelry ! 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep ! 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly passsd, 
And England's royal flower is broken by the 

blast ! 



Was it a dream .'' so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So ioved, so blest, is that young spirit fled. 
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame 
O, when hath life possessed, or death destroyed 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled t 
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ? 
For all is lost — the mother and her child ! 
Our morning star hath vanished, and the tomb 
Throws its deep-lengthened shade o'er distant 
years to come. 



Angel of Death! did no presaging s%n 
Announce thy coming, and thy w^ay prepare ! 
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, 
Danger and fear seemed past — but thou wert 

there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path 
Foretell the hour of nature's awful throes • 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath. 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose 
But thou, dark Spirit I swift and unforeseen, 
Cam' St like the lightning's flash, when heaven 

is all serene. 



And she is gone ! — the royal and the younp,, 
In soul commanding, and in heart benign ! 
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sjn-uug, 
Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line. 
Now may the voice she loved on earth so m ell 
Breathe forth her name inheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those eyes on which her own would 

dwell 
Wake from that breast one sym])athy asjain 



MlSriEIXANEOUS POEMS. 



rhe ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 



0, many a bright existence we have seen 
Quenched in the glow and fulness of its prime ; 
And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath been 
Cropped ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride. 
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier ; 
And we have wept when soaring genius died, 
Checked in the glory of his mid career ! 
But here our hopes were centred — all is o'er ; 
^11 thought in this absorbed — she was — and 
is no more ! 



We watched her childhood from its earliest hour. 
From every word and look blest omens caught ; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose tc energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fixed the patriot's ardent eye — 
One hope still bloomed, one vista still was fair ; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, 
She was our dayspring — all was cloudless there ; 
And O, how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of 
distant davs ! 



Now hath one moment darkened future years, 
And changed the track of ages yet to be ! 
Yet, mortal ! 'midst the bitterness of tears. 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 
0, while the clear perspective smiled in light, 
Wisdom should theii have tempered hope's ex- 
cess ; 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, 
We might have trembled at its loveliness. 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear, 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air. 



All smiled around thee : Youth, and Love, and 

Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ! 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze, 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires ! thou art passed away 
Lik<»i some fair vision, that arose to throw 
O'er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray, 
Then leave the rest to sohtude and woe ! 
0, who shall dare to wuu such dreams again ! 
Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee 

were vam ? 



IX. 

Y'et there is one who loved thee — and whose sou 
With mild aff'ections nature formed to melt ; 
His mind hath bowed beneath the stern contro' 
Of many a grief — but this shall be unfelt ! 
Y'ears have gone by — and given his honored 

head 
A diadem of snow ; his eye is dim ; 
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread 
The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 
Y^'et, in the darkness of his fate, alone * 
He dwells on earth, while thou in life's fuL 

pride art gone ! 



The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weej», 
But not repine — for many a storm hath passed, 
And, pillowed on her own majestic deep, 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast ! 
And War hath raged o'er many a distant plaiiL, 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; 
While she, that regal daughter of the main, 
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath I 
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, 
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die. 



Her voice hath been th' awakener — and her 

name 
The gathering word of nations. In her might, 
And all the awful beauty of her fame, 
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 
High on her cliff's, alone and firm she stood, 
Fixing the torch upon her beacon tower — 
That torch whose flame, far streaming o'er th* 

flood, 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hou: 
Away, vain dreams of glory ! — in the dust 
Be humbled. Ocean queen ! and own thy sea 

tence just ! 

1 " I saw him last on this len»<:« ftrod, 
Walking in health and gladness ; 
Begirt with his court — and in all the eirwtt 
Not a single look of sadness. 

" The time since he walked in glorj' thus, 
To the grave till [ saw him carried, 
Was an age of the mightiest change to «« 
But to him a night unvaried. 

" A daughter beloved — a queen — a son — 
And a son's sole child had perished ; 
And sad was each heart, save the only one 
By which they were fondest cherished.' 

— " The Contrast." written under Wind ior Terr\c*, ITU 
Feb., 1820, by Horace Smith, Esq. 



112 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hark ! 'twas the deatli bell's note ! which, full 

and deep, 
Unmixed with aught of less majestic tone, 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swelled on the stillness of the air alone ! 
Silent the throngs that fill the darkened street, 
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart ; 
And aU is still, where countless thousands meet. 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 
AU deeply, strangely, fearfully serene. 
As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had 

been. 



The sun goes down in beauty — his farewell, 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright ; 
And his last mellowed rays around us dwell, 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but, when the day is o'er, 
What slow procession moves with measured 

tread ? — 
Lo ! those who weep, with her who weeps no 

more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead ! 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled 

ray 
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus 

away. 



But other light is in that holy pile. 

Where, in the house of silence, kings repose ; 

There, through the dim arcade and pillared 
aisle. 

The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. 

There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain. 

And all around the stamp of woe may bear ; 

But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are 
vain, 

Grief unexpressed, unsoothed by them — is there. 

No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, 

Than when the all he loved as dust to dust re- 
turns. 

XV. 

We mourn — but not thy fate, departed One ! 

We pity — but the living, not the dead ; 

A oloud hangs o'er us * — " the bright day is 

done," 
^nd "with a father's hopes a nation's fled. 



1 " The bright day is done, 
And we are for the dark 



-SHA.K1PBABB. 



And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, 
Whose soul with thine had mingled everj 

thought — 
He, with thine early, fond affections blest, 
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught ; 
What but a desert to his eye that earth 
Which but retains of thee the memory of thj 

worth ? 



O, there are griefs for nature too intense. 
Whose first rude shock but stupefies the soul ; 
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabored sense 
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control 
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless 

hour 
Of the sealed bosom and the tearless eye, 
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold 

power 
To grasp the fulness of its agony ! 
Its deathlike torpor vanished — and its doom. 
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature'i 

bloom. 



And such his lot whom thou hast loved an'i 

left. 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recalled ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appalled. 
Years may pass on — and, as they roll along, 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, 
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend , 
Yet still, the guardian angel of his mind 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's tem- 
ple shrined. 

XVIII. 

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells w'tl> 

thee : 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may 

heal. 
But all it was — 0, nevermore shall be. 
The flower, the leaf, o'er whelmed by wittAi 

snow. 
Shall spring again, when beams and showers 

return. 
The faded cheek again with health may glow. 
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn ; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young 

bloom, 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the 

tomb. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Ill 



But thou ! thine hour of agony is o'er, 

And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run ; 

While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no 

more, 
Tells that thy uro^vTi (though not on earth) is won. 
Thou, of the -world so early left, hast known 
Nought but the bloom and sunshine ; and for thee, 
Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone, 
The course of love ran smooth ^ and brightly free. 
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given : 
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of 

heaven. 



What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 

Rose in its glory on thine England's eye. 

The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect 

came ? 
Ours is that loss — and thou wert blest to die ! 
rhou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast ; 
But thy spring morn was all undimmed by tears, 
And thou wert loved and cherished to the last ! 
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder 

tone. 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 



Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere look 

down 
Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may 

rise ; 
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal cro\\-n 
Which earth displayed to claim thee from the 

skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear. 

The course of true love never did run smooth." 

Shakspearx. 

15 



Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that moura 
in vain. 

And in their hours of loneliness — be near ! 

Blest was thy lot e'en here — and ont faint sigh 

O, tell those hearts, hath made that blest eter- 
nity ! - 

2 These stanzas wne dated, Brownwliylfa, 23d Dec. 
1817, and first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol ii' 
April, 1818. 

EXTRACT FEOII QUAUTEKLY KEVIEW. 

" The next volume in order consists principally of trans 
lations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs. Hemans '^ 
acquamtanre with books, to enumerate the authors frr/t 
whom she has chosen her subjects : — they are Camoens, 
Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco 
Manuel, Delia Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Uuevedo, Juan 
de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro 
Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega — 
names embracing almost every language in which the muse 
has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations 
are very pretty, but it would be less uiteresting to select any 
of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed 
of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, there 
fore, to the latter part of tlie volume, which contains mucJi 
that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which ^e 
are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated — and no 
wonder ; it would be hard to find another winch embraces 
so many of the elements of poetic feeling ; so sootJnng a 
mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope ; sucli an 
assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playful- 
ness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable bright- 
ness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of soi 
rows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness 
We know so little of the heart e-mail, that when we stand 
by th<» grave of him whom we deem must excellent, the 
thought of death will be mingled with some awe and Uh 
certainty ; but the gracious promises of Scripture leave nc 
doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants ; and when 
we think what they now are and what they might have 
been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suf- 
fered, what they have now gained and what they might 
have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them ; but \Vf 
nmst be selfish indeed to wish them again ' constrained 
to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. Tbe 
' Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thought* 
and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language : — 



'No 



bitter tears for thee be shed,' " etc — Vide po/ie 106 



114 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.* 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief ! " 



Ihe morn rose bright on scenes renowned, 
Wild Caledonia's classic ground, 
Where the bold sons of other days 
Won their high fame in Ossian's lays, 
And fell — but not till Carron's tide 
With Homan blood was darkly dyed. 
The morn rose bright — and heard the cry 
Sent by exulting hosts on high, 
And saw the white-pross banner float 
(While rung each clansman's gathering note) 
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers ; 
As, all elate with hope, they stood. 
To buy their freedom with their blood. 

1 Advertisement bij tli". Author. — "A native of Edinburgh, 
and member of the Highland Society of London, with a 
view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable 
national monument to the memory of Wallace, lately of- 
fered prizes for the three best poems on the subject of thtt 
illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish tlirone. The 
following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would 
nave appeared in the same form in which it is now offered 
to the public, under the direction of its proper editor, the 
giver of the prize ; but his privilege has, with pride as well 
as pleasure, been yielded to a lady of the author's own 
country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this 
opportunity of honoring and further remunerating the genius 
of the poet ; and, at the same time, expressing her admi- 
ration of the theme in which she has triumphed. 

" It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and 
eilightened people, that, in England, tlie memory of the 
patriots and martyrs of Scotland haj long excited an inter- 
est not eyceeded in strength by that which prevails in the 
country which boasts their birth ^ their deeds, and their 
Bufferings." 

" Mrs. Ilemans was recommended by a zealous friend in 
Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she ac 
cordingly did, though without being in tlie slightest degree 
Banguine of success ; so that the news of the prize having 
been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. 
The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so over- 
whelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the 
iidges appointed to decide on their nerits. A letter, writ- 
len at this time, describes them as being reduced to absolute 
despair by the contemplation of the task which awaited 
Iheiii, having to read over a mass of poetry that would re- 
quire a month at least to wade through. Some of the con- 
tributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable ; and 
one of them is mentioned as being as long as Paradise Lost. 
\t length, however, the Herculean labor was accomplished ; 
and the honor awarded to Mrs. Hemans, on this occasion. 
Beamed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement 
nhe w as ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scot- 
rish public." — Memoir, pp. 31, 32. 

Although two thirds of the compositions sent to the arbi- 
ters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been 
nere trash yet sf i oral afterwards came to light, through the 



The sunset shone — to guide the fl> •*?, 
And beam a' farewell to the dying ! 
The summer moon, on Falkirk's field. 
Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed , 
Deep slumber — not to pass a\fay 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice 
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice : 
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's bx'^>**' 
May chase the still cold sleep of death ? 
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained plaid. 
Low are her mountain warriors laid ; 
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould 
Was blent with heroes' dust of old, 

press, of very considerable excellence. We would espec*. > 
mention " Wallace and Bruce, a Vision," published in Coh- 
stable's Magazine for December, 1819 , and " Wallace," by 
James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourtli volume ol 
his Collected Works — Edin. 1822, pp. 143-160. 

" The Vision " is tlius prefaced : — " Though far from 
entering into a hopeless competition with Mrs. Hemans, 1 
think the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not 
to be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs. Hemans ha? 
adorned the subject with tlie finest strains of pure poetry 
Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genu- 
ine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other 
muse but the amor ■patriae, and seeks no other praise but what 
is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient king 
dom, and no higher name than that of ' a kindly Scot.' " 

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations 
and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgment 
of the merits of his rival. " This poem," (Wallace,) says 
he, " was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance 
with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gain- 
said, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the 
best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded 
to Mrs. Felicia Hemans ; and, as far as the merits ot mine 
wfcJit, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in ele- 
gance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted 
the judge myself, t would have given hers the preference by 
many degrees ; and I estimated it the more highly as coming 
from one of the people that were the hero's fot.?, oppressors, 
and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so mucb 
to an author for any poem that ever was written." 

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such 
a man as the Author of " The Queen's Wake " — a prodiic- 
tion entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, inde^ 
pendently of the extraordinary circumstances under whicl' 
it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, take» 
as a whole, " Kilmeny," " Glenavin," " Earl Walter,' 
" The Abbot Mackinnon," and " The Witch of Fife " 
more especially the first and the last — possess peculia, 
merits, and of a high kind ; and are, I doubt not, destined 
to remain forever embalmed in the memories of all true 
lovers of imaginative verse. Por r Hogg was the very re- 
verso of Anteeus — he was always in power except when "le 
touched the earth.] 



' WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO lUlUCE. ila 


\ud, guarded by the free and brave. 


And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot 


!ifielded the Roman — buu a gra>'e ! 


Eternity shall cancel not ? 


Nobly they fell >^t with them died 


Rejoice ! — with sounds of wild lament 


The warrior's hope, the leader's priae. 


O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent, 


V'amly they fell — that martyr host — 


With dying moan and dirge's wail. 


All, save the land's high soul, is lost. 


Thy ravaged country bids thee hail I 


Blest are the slain ! they calmly sleep, 


Rejoice ! — while yet exulting cries 


Nor hear their bleeding country weep ! 


From England's conquering host arise, 


The shouts of England's triumph telling 


And strains of choral triumph tell 


Reach not their dark and silent dwelling ' 


Her Royal Slave hath fought too well • 


And those surviving to bequeath 


0, dark the clouds of woe that rest 


Their sons the choice of chains or death, 


Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain crest ! 


May give the slumberer's lowly bier 


Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, 


An envying glance — but not a tear. 


O'er martyred chiefs her daughters mourn 




And not a breeze but wafts the sound 


But thou, the fearless and the free, 


Of wailing through the land around. 


Devoted Knight of EUerslie ! 


Yet deem not thou, till life depart, 


No vassal spirit, formed to bow 


High hope shall leave the patriot's heart • 


When storms are gathering, clouds thy \*cvr ; 


Or courage to the storm inured. 


No shade of fear or weak despair 


Or stern resolve by woes matured. 


Blends with indignant sorrow there ! 


Oppose, to Fate's severest hour. 


The lay which streams on yon red field. 


Less than unconquerable power ! 


O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, 


No ! though the orbs of heaven expire. 


Glitters not there alone, to shed 


Thine, Freedom ! is a quenchless fire ; 


Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead ; 


And woe to him whose might would dare 


But where smooth Carron's rippling wave 


The energies of thy despair ! 


Flows near that death bed of the brave, 


No ! — when thy chain, Bruce ! is cast 


lUuming all the midnight scene, 


O'er thy land's chartered mountain blast, 


Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. 


Then in my yielding soul shall die 


But other be^ms, Patriot ! shine 


The glorious faith of Liberty ! " 


In each commanding glance of thine, 




And other light hath filled thine eye 


"Wild hopes! o'er dreamer's mind thsl 


With inspiration's majesty, 


rise ! " 


Caught from th' immortal flame divine 


With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries. 


Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine ! 


(Yet his dark cheek is flushed with shame, 


Thy voice a prophet's tone hath won. 


And his eye filled with troubled flame ;) 


The grandeur Freedom lends her son ; 


" Vain, brief illusions ! doomed to fly , 


Thy bearing a resistless powder, 


England's red path of victory ! 


The ruling genius of the hour ! 


Is not her sword unmatched in might ? 


And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride. 


Her course a torrent in the fight ? 


Whom Carron's waves from thee divide, 


The terror of her name gone forth 


Whose haughty gesture fain would seek 


Wide o'er the regions of the north ? 


To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, 


Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows, 


Feels his reluctant mind controlled 


Must freedom's footstep now reposo. 


By thine of more heroic mould : 


And thou — in lofty dreams elate. 


Though struggling all in vain to war 


Enthusiast ! strive no more with Fate ! 


With that high soul's ascendant star, 


'Tis vain — the land is lost and won : 


He, with a conqueror's scornful eye. 


Sheathed be the sword — its task is done. 


Would mock the name of Liberty. 


Where are the chiefs that stood with thee 




First in the battles of the free r 


Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice ? — 


The firm in heart, in spirit high ? 


♦ Proud Victor ! in thy fame rejoice ! 


They sought yon fatal field to die. 


Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, 


Each step of Edward's conquering host 


The harvest of the battle plain, 


Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast." 



lis 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE 



'♦ Vassal of England, yes ! a grave 
Where sleep the faithful and the brave ; 
And -who the glory would resign 
Of death like theirs, for life like thine ? 
They slumber— and the stranger's tread 
May spurn thy country's noble dead ; 
Y«t, on the land they loved so well, 
Still shall their burning spirit dwell, 
Their d^eds shall hallow minstrel's theme, 
Their image rise on warrior's dream, 
Their names be inspiration's breath. 
Kindling high hope and scorn of death. 
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, 
The flame that shall avenge their doom ! 
This is no land for chains — away ! 
O'er softer climes let tyrants sway. 
Think'st thou the mountain and the storm 
Their hardy sons for bondage form ? 
Doth our stern wintry blast instil 
Submission to a despot's will ? 
No ! we were cast in other mould 
Than theirs by lawless power controlled ; 
The nurture of our bitter sky 
Calls forth resisting energy ; 
And the wild fastnesses are ours, 
The rocks with their eternal towers. 
The soul to struggle and to dare 
Is mingled with our northern air, 
And dust beneath our soil is lying 
C»f those who died for fame undying. 

" Tread' St thou that soil ! and can it be 
No loftier thought is roused in thee ? 
Doth no high feeling proudly start 
From slumber in thine inmost heart ? 
No secret voice thy bosom thrill. 
For thine own Scotland pleading still .-' 
0, wake thee yet — indignant, claim 
A nobler fate, a purer fame, 
And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 
And take thine offered crown from heaven. 
Wake ! in that high majestic lot 
May the dark past be all forgot ; 
And Scotland shall forgive the field 
Where with her blood thy shame was sealed. 
E'en I — though on that fatal plain 
lies my heart's brother with the slain ; 
Though, reft of his heroic worth, 
Mv spirit dwells alone on earth ; 
And when all other grief is past. 
Must this be cherished to the last — 
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne. 
With faith unspotted as his own ; 
Nor in thy noon of fame recall 
'Vhose was the guilt that wrought his fall." 



Still dost thou hear in stern disdain ' 
Are Freedom's warning accents vain t 
No ! royal Bruce ! within thy breast 
Wakes each high thought, too long suppressed 
And thy heart's noblest feelings Uve, 
Blent in that suppliant word — '* Jforgive! 
** Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done ! 
Wallace ! thy fairest palm is won ; 
And, kindling at my country's shime, 
My soul hath caught a spark from t'nine. 
O, deem not, in the proudest hour 
Of triumph and exulting power — 
Deem not the light of peace could find 
A home within my troubled mind. 
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen, 
Dark, silent, secret, there have been. 
Known but to Him v/hose glance can trac9 
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place ! 
— 'Tis past — and on my native shore 
I tread, a rebel son no more. 
Too blest, if yet my lot may be 
In glory's path to follow thee ; 
K tears, -by late repentance poured, 
May lave the blood stains from my sword ! " 

Far other tears, O Wallace ! rise 
From the heart's fountain to thine eyes, 
Bright, holy, and unchecked they spring, 
While thy voice falters, " Hail ! my King ! 
Be every AATong, by memory traced. 
In this full tide of joy efl"aced : 
Hail ! and rejoice ! — thy race shall claim 
A heritage of deathless fame. 
And Scotland shall arise at length 
Majestic in triumphant strength, 
An eagle of the rock, that won 
A way through tempests to the sun. 
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand. 
The prophet spirit of thy land : 
By torrent wave, in desert vast, 
Those visions o'er my thought have passed 
Where mountain vapors darkly roll, 
That spirit hath possessed my soul ; 
And shadowy forms have met mine eye, 
The beings of futurity ; 
And a deep voice of years to be 
Hath told that Scotland shall be free ! 
He comes ! exult, thou Sire of Kings ! 
From thee the chief, th' avenger sprmgs ! 
Far o'er the land he comes to save. 
His banners in their glory wave. 
And Albyn's thousand harps awaxe 
On hill and heath, by stream and lake, 
To swell the strains that far around 
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound f 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 



\nd I — but wherefore now recall 

The whispered omens of my fall ? 

They come not in mysterious gloom — 

There is no bondage in the tomb ! 

O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns, 

And earth alone for man hath chains ! 

What though I perish ere the hour 

When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power ? 

'.f shed for her, my blood shall stain 

The field or scaffold not in vain : 

Its voice to efforts more sublime 

Shall rouse the spirit of her clime ; 

A.nd in the noontide of her lot, 

My country shall forget me not ! " 



Art thou forgot ? and hath thy worth 
Without its glory passed from earth ? 
Rest with the brave, whose names belong 
To the high sanctity of. song ! 
^'bartered our reverence to control, 
\nd traced in sunbeams on the soul. 
Thine, Wallace ! while the heart hath still 
One pulse a generous thought can thrill — 
While youth's warm tears are yet the meed 
Of martyr's death or hero's deed. 
Shall brightly live from age to age, 
Thy country's proudest heritage ! 
'M- St her green vales thy fame is dwelling, 
Th> ieeds her mountain winds are telling, 
rh> aemory speaks in torrent wave. 
Thy »:ep hath hallowed rock and cave, 
A.nd cold the wanderer's heart must be 
That holds no converse there with thee ! 
Yet, Scotlb \d ! to thy champion's shade 
Still are th» grateful rites delayed ; 
From lands ot old renown, o'ei-spread 
With proud iremorials of the dead. 
The trophied mn, the breathing bust, 
The pillar guailLng noble dust. 
The shrine wheie art and genius high 
Have labored for ^>t€rnity — 
The stranger comet* : his eye explores 
Tne wilds of thy majestic shores, 
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone 
Raised to the hero all thine own. 

Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore / 
Withhold that guerdon now no more. 
On some bold height of awful form, 
Hl.sia eyry of the cloud and storm, 



Sublimely mingling with the skies. 

Bid the proud Cenotaph arise : 

Not to record the name that thrills 

Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills ; 

Not to assert, with needless claim, 

The hx'ight forever of its fame ; 

But, in the ages yet untold, 

When ours shall be the days of old. 

To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pridd 

In him, for thee who lived and died. 



[These verses were thus critically noticed at Ute tiiTie o 
publication : — 

" U'hen we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs. Hemans hai 
authorized the judges wlio awarded to her the prize to send 
her poem to us, it is needless to say with what cnthusia. ^ 
the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides, 
and at its conclusion thtmders of applause crowned tlj6 
genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie — Ireland 
her Tighe — England her Hemans." — Blackwood's Jilaga- 
line, vol, V. Sept., 1819. ^ 

" Mrs. Hemans so ^oon again ! — and with a palm in hei 
hand ! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the 
high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so un- 
equivocally confirmed. 

" On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and 
Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of 
the other side of the Tweed — a circunistance, we learn, 
which was known fioui tlie references before the prizes were 
determined. Mrs. Hemans's was the first prize, against fifty- 
seven competitors. Tiiat a Scottish prize, for a poem on a 
subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an 
English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness 
of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further 
demonstrates the dis;i[)|)earance of those jealousies which, 
not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a can- 
didate any thing like a fair chance with a native — if we 
can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of makins 
the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that 
of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramoimt supremacy 
of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling 
which warms the two naticms alike, and rijjens yet more 
that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in 
one great family." — Edinbur^rk Moidhhj Review, vol. ii. 

The estimation into wliich the poetry of Mrs. Hemans was 
rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following pas 
sage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitleu 
" Common Sense," then published, and currently believed 
to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr. Terrot, now 
Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the fo- 
male writers of the age. Miss Baillie is the first mentioned 
and characterized. He then proceeds — 

" Next I'd place 

Felicia Hemans, second in the race ; 

I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir 

Oft about rubbish, never mention licr. 

Tliey inislit have said, I think, from mere socd ijeediij^ 

Mistress Felicia's works are worth the reading." 

" Mrs. Hemans," adds the critical satirist in a note, '-< >» 
a lady (a young lady, I believe) of very considerable n-.erit 
Her imagination is vigorous, her language co| ious and eh> 
gant, her information extensive. I have no means jf ascei 
taining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deservt* 
well of the republic of letters." 

The worthy bishop has lived to read " The Records ol 
Woman ; " and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know thai 
tlie aspirant of 1819 has now taken her p;ace among IJritisJ 
classics. 



'18 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 

l^The events with which the following tale is interwoven 
»re related in the Historia de las Gaerras Civiles de Granada. 
Tiiey occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last 
iloorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey 
Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facili- 
tatad by the Abencerra«:es, whose defection was the result 
of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, 
at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful 
balls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so 
many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred ; and 
it still retains their name, being called the " Sala de los 
Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old Spanish 
ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic 
period ] ' 

" Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere dure encore, 
niais parce que la vengeance seal peut ecarter de sa tete le poids 
d'infamie dont il est accable. II se venge, parce qu'a ses yeux 
il u'y a qu'une anie basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts ; et il 
nourrit sa rancune, parce que s'il la sentoit s'eteindre, il croiroit 
avec elle avoir perdu une vertu." Sismondi. 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 
Thou fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er ; 

And with the murmur of thy fountain falls 
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more. 

Hushed are the voices that in years gone by 
Have mourned, exulted, menaced, through 
thy towers ; 

Within thy pillared courts the grass waves high, 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows. 
Through tall arcades unmarked the sunbeam 
smiles, 

And many a tint of softened brilliance throws 
O'er fretted walls and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone. 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, 

Some charmed abode of beings all unknown, 
Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

For there no footstep treads th' enchanted 
ground. 
There not a sound the deep repose pervades, 
Bave winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, 
Through the light domes and graceful colon- 
nades. 

^'ar other tones have swelled those courts along 
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace — 



The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
The revels, combats of a vanished race. 

And yet a while, at Fancy's potent call, 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold, 

Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall 
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of 
old. 

The sun declines : upon Nevada's height 

There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour ; 
Hushed are the winds, and nature seems to sleep 
In light and stillness ; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven — 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her at rest 
The flery passions of the human breast. 
Hark ! from th' Alhambra' s towers what stormy 

sound. 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around } 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng. 
Not the light zambra ' nor the choral song ; 
The combat rages — 'tis the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and cimeter. 
Within the Hall of Lions,^ where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands. 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands 
There the strife centres — swords around him 

wave, 
There bleed the fallen, there contend the biave 
While echoing domes return the battle cry, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still. 
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. 
But first and bravest of that gallant train, 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain 



1 Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

2 The Hail of Lions was the principal one of the Alham 
bra, and was so called from twelve sculptured 'ions whici 
supported an alabaster basin in llie centre 



THE ABENCERIIAGP]. 



11. 



In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs ' there young Hamet leads ; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 

Yes ! trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath 
By helm and corselet shattered in his path, 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain, 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain : 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest 

cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair arise ; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions 

glare, 
Ajid where the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes ! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host. 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 

They perished — not as heroes should have 
died. 
On the red field, in victory's hour of pride. 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, 
And proudly smiling as the death pang came : 
0, had they thics expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flow^ed, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
— Not such their fate : a tyrant's stern com- 
mand 
Doomed them to fall by some ignoble hand. 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race^ 
Summoned Abdallah's royal feast to grace, 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall — to die. 
Betrayed, unarmed, they fell — the fountain 

wave 
Flowed crimson with the lifeblood of the brave, 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate. 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be 
won. 

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife. 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life, 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, 
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Abcn-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more. 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 



1 Aben-Zurrahs : the name thuH written is taken from the 
franslation of an Arabic. MS, given in the third volume of 
fcourgoanne's Travels through Spain. 



But lo ! descending o'er the darkened hall. 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall. 
Nor yet the strife hath coi.'^d — though scare 

they know. 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from tin 

foe ; 
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, 
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to &lay. 

Where lurks Abdallah ? — 'midst his yieldixg 

train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. 
He lies not numbered with the valiant dead, 
His champions round him have not vainly ble^ 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, 
And his last warriors found each eff"ort fail, 
In wild despair he fled — a trusted few. 
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true j 
And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, 
The Vega's ^ green ex^^amse, his flying footstep., 

lead. 
He passed th' Alhambra's calm and lovely 

bowers. 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded 

flowers 
In dew^ and starlight — there, from grot and cave, 
Gushed in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 
There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rosf • 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ! in thy bosom reig. 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep 

again. 
O, vainly bright is nature in the course 
Of him w^ho flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obsciu-es her bloom 
And dims her skies wdth shadows of the tomb , 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves 
Fraught with rich odor, stolen from orangu 

groves ; 
Hears not the sounds from -wood and brook thai 

rise. 
Wild notes of nature's vesper melodies ; 
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head. 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustri 

spread ; 
But urges onward, till his weary band. 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demanr* 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fixed a while rctnains 



2 The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scone ol 
frequent actions between the Moors and Chi.stians. 



.^0 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



In storn, deep silence ; o'er his feverish brow, 
Arid burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, 
But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar. 
Sounds indistinctly fearful — as of war. 
What meteor bursts Avith sudden blaze on high, 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky ? 
Awful it rises, like some Genie form. 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm. 
Magnificently dread — above, below, 
Sj reads the wild splendor of its deepening glow.* 
Lo ! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air ! 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height. 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

O Heaven ! the anguish of Abdallah's soul. 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life — such life as makes it bliss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half re- 
vealed 
Through cypress groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent — yet oft he turns, 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last, 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past ; 
And spiry vapors, rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reached that lonely pile, 
Where grief and terror may repose a while ; 
Embowered it stands, 'midst wood and cliff" on 

high, 
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh : 
He hails the scene where every care should cease, 
And all — except the heart he brings — is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of state 
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late ; 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's 

blast 
Ilath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed.^ 

1 An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the 
Simoom. — See Bruce's Travels. 

2 Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we 
bave the following account in Volney's Travels: " Tliese 
Winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds 
01 Jitty days, because tliey prevail more frequently in the fifty 
days preceding and following the equinox. They are men- 
tioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds 
or hot winds of the desert : their heat is so excessive, that it 
is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having 
experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other 
■jinesso clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy ; the 
iiTj loses hi.s splendor, and appears of a violet color ; tJie 



Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor .<»*,ep, nor breavi 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs reficho not a sound. 
Save the wild gush of waters — murmuring rouni 
In ceaseless melodies of plaintiA e tone, 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, 
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet, softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, 
And smile in placid beauty o'er the dead ; 
O'er features where the fiery sphit's trace 
E'en death itself is powerless to efface ; 
O'er those who flushed Avith ard«.-iut youth awoke. 
When glowing morn in blcrooa and radianct 

broke. 
Nor dreamt how near the dt»rk and frozen sleep 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep 
In the low, silent house, the narrow spot. 
Home of forgetfulness — and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars — the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more ; 
Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. 
Yet smiles the day — O, not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from hcv calm career : 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair. 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not 

share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows. 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, 
And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of woe ; 
And flowers renewed in spring's green pathway 

bloom. 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral -ite 
Attends that day of loveliness and ligh J ; 
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gathered to the brave of other years : 



air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled w.ih a 
subtile dust, which penetrates every where : -espiration be- 
comes short and difficult, the skin parched and drj', the hings 
are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with in 
ternal heat. In vain is coolness sought for ; marble, iron, 
water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets 
are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where 
The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up ii, 
their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes duj 
in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, 
which generally lasts three days Woe to the traveller 
whom it surprises remote from shelter • he must s iffei at 
its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal." 




#£vr2^-T# 



s []j iFd ^ a IT c 



THE ABENCEllRAGE. 



I2i 



A.nd Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade 
His martyred brother and his sire are laid, 
Feels every deep resolve and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance e'en to passion wrought ; 
Yo* is the hour afar — and he must brood 
O'ci those dark dreams a while in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hushed — another day 
In still solemnity hath passed away, 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, 
Tnc calm that follows m the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, 
His ravaged city traversing again. 
No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
WTiere'er he moves the silent streets along, 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng. 
No voice is heard ; but in each altered eye. 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
A.nd in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth to slumber with the dead. 
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone — 
In youth's quick glance of scarce dissem.bled rage, 
And the pale mien of calmly mournful age, 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Jf thought that ill the indignant heart can veil, 
And passion like the hushed volcano's power, 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion from Granada's walls, 
Eeard o'er the Yega, to the tourney calls ; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye : 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, 
And song is hushed, and pageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep — 
Low in the dust the suns of glory sleep ! 
Furled are their banners in the lonely hall, 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the 

wall. 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er — 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more. 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Whom he hath wronged too deeply to forgive. 
That race of bneage high, of worth approved, 
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved — 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and 

shield : 
Condemned to bid the cherished scenes fare- 
well 
UTiere the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, 
A.nd far oer foreign plains as exiles roam. 
Their land the desert, and the grave their home. 
16 



Yet there is one shall sec that race depart 
In deep though silent agony of heart : 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone. 
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown 
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to weal 
That smile in which the spirit hath no share — 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless 

glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow 

Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower ■ 
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern reason would eff'ace : 
Hamet ! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race ! 

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love — 
Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight. 
And the spring morn of early genius blight : 
Not such her grief — though now she wakes it 

weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey dews of 

sleep.* 

A step treads lightly through the citron shade, 
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betrayed — 
Doth her young hero seek that well-known 

spot. 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot ? 
*Tis he — but changed that eye, whose glanc* 

of fire 
Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardor fraught, 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought : 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled, 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves — now veiled 

in shade, 
And now in characters of fire portrayed. 
Changed e'en his voice — as thus its moumf« J 

tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 

•♦ Zayda ! my doom is fixed — another day 
And the wronged exile shall be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be 
His home of youth, and, more than all — from 
thee. 



1 " Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber." 



122 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



0, what a cloud hath gathered o'er my lot 
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot ! 
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower ; 
But I — m; hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, 
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 
Far« veil, high thoughts ! inspiring hopes of 

praise ! 
fleroic >'lsion9 of my early days ! 
In me the glories of my race must end — 
The exile hath no country to defend ! 
E'en in life's morn my dreams of pride are o'er, 
Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, 
A.nd one ^\ild feeling in my altered breast 
Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest. 
Yet fear not tb ou — to thee, in good or ill, 
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still ! 
But when my steps are distant, and my name 
Thou hear'st no longer in the song of fame ; 
When time steals on, in silence to efface 
Of early love each pure and sacred trace. 
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, — 
Still shall thy soul be A\'ith me, in the truth 
And all the fervor of affection's youth ? 
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 
In lonely beauty o'er thy wanderer's way." 

" Ask not if such my love ! O, trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resigned ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought, 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget. 
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret ! 
Fostered in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learned to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower ; 
No ! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, 
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies ! 
Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart, 
That ne'er to meet in happier days we part. 
"NVe part ! and e'en this agonizing hour. 
When love first feels his own o'erwhelming 

power, 
ShaU soon to niemory's fixed and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh ! 
Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, 
As days to days all wearily succeed, 
When doomed to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee ! 

" But thou, my Hamet ! thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blisrhted lot can know. 
0, be thou still the high souled and the brave, 



To whom my first and fondest vows I gave ; 
In thy proud fame's untarnisned beauty still 
The lofty visions of my youtn fulfil. 
So shall it soothe me, 'midst my heart's despaii 
To hold undimmed one glorious image there ! ' 

<' Zayda, my best beloved ! my words too well 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveiled be shovm^ 
And all its dreams and all its passions 'known 
Thou shalt not be deceived — for pure as heaver 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervor given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thj 

thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought. 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes. 
Crushed by the earthquake, strew its ravaged 

plains ; 
And such that heart where desolation's hand 
Hath bligtited all that once was fair or grand ! 
But Vengeance, fixed upon her burning throne, 
Sits 'midst the wreck in silence and alone ; 
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine. 
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 
Yes ! they whose spirits all my thoughts control, 
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul , 
They, the betrayed, the sacrificed, the brave. 
Who fill a blood-stained and untimely grave, 
Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse 
In that stern cause are banished from my course. 
Zayda ! thou tremblest — and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest 
Y'et shall thy form, in many a stormy hour. 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power, 
And, oft recalled, thy voice beguile my lot. 
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot 

*' But the night wanes — the hours too swift- 
ly fly. 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh ; 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain, 
O, trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again ! 
Yes, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last fare- 
weU ! " 

Is the voice hushed, whose loved expressive 
tone 
Thrilled to her heart — and doth she weep alone • 
Alone she weeps ; that hour of parting o'er, 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more ? 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fhir 
Showering the dewy rose leaves o'er hei hair ; 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



Ui 



But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 
To wake once more that calm serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath 

could blight — 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, 
Ere yet the daystar burns in all his power. 
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious 

shade, 
[n the rich foliage of the South arrayed, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day. 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm' and cypress wave 
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave. 
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves. 
To canopy the dead ; nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air. 
Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive 

stream — 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
There sleep the chiefs of old — their combat's o'er. 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows ; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise. 
'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of bright- 
est bloom — 
A.S. in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 

There, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead ; 
Where two fair pillars rise, embowered and 

lone, 
N'ot yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown, 
Young Hamet kneels — while thus his vows are 

poured, 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword : 
— " Spirit of him who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, 
A-nd taught my steps the line of light to trace 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear thou my voice ! for thine is with me still, 
lif every dream its tones my bosom thrill. 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear. 
Still murmuring •' vengeance ! " — nor in vain 

the call, 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall ! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame. 
Within my heart there lives one only aim ; 
There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone, 
Honcentring every thought, it reigns alone. 



I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be, 
And blood, not tears, an off'ering meet for thee 
But the dark hour of stern delight will come. 
And thou shalt triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb 

♦' Thou, too, my brother ! thou art passed away 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day. 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line ; 
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays 
That hold communion with the after days. 
Yet, by the wreaths thou mightst have noblj 

won, 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun 
By glory lost, I swear ! by hope betrayed, 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid : 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, 
And to avenge thy death devote my life. 

•< Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain ! 
Hear, and be with me on the battle plain ! 
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide. 
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died • ' 



"Ol ben prowide il Cielo 

Ch' Uom per delitti raai lieto noii sia.' 



Fair land ! of chivalry the old domain, 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to via 
In charms that flx th' enthusiast's pensive eye , 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought 
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancier t 

name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame 
Those scenes are peaceful now : the citron blows. 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repo»e 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, 
And banners wave on Ebro's hanks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly trssid 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead } 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes shan 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays 
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days 
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung 
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among 
How oft those rocks have echoed to thr. tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vtile • 



[24 



TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 



Of him, renowned in old heroic lore, 

First of the brave, the gallant Campeador ; 

Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died 

When Rio Ycrde rolled a crimson tide ; 

Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might 

On the Green Yega won in single fight.* 

Kound fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that Green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corselet tremulous they glanced, 
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above ; 
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armor bright 
With gold, reflecting every tint of light, 
And many a floating plume and blazoned shield 
Diffused romantic splendor o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life- 
blood start 
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart : 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh. 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And, O, that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death ; 
In whose Avild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour ; 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain ; 
And, 'midst the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broidered fold. 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold : 
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears 
AVho drank for man the bitter cup of tears ^ — 
Ills form, whose word recalled the spirit fled. 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead ! 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardor which, in days of yore, 
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore ; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, 
riiey come, the gallant children of Castile ; 

1 Gaicilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a smf;le 
combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the 
Vega of Granada. 

2 " El Rcy D. Fernando bolvio k la Vega, y pus6 su Real 
I la vista ue Huecar, a vcyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, 
»<)onde fiie fortificado de todo lo necessario ; poniendo el 
L'hristiano toda su gcnte en esqiiadron, con todas sus van- 
Jeras '.endidas, y su Real Estandarle, el qual llevava por 
iivi.sa un Cliristo criicificado." — Historia de las Guerras 
Mvtlci dc Oranada. 



The proud, the calmly dignified : and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair. 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich provmce of the western star.* 

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glitterinj 
scene. 
Stern grandeur stamped upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,* 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes, 
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance r Dis- 
close ! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
O son of Afric ! 'midst the sons of Spain ? 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired. 
Apostate chief ! by hope of vengeance fired ? 
How art thou changed ! still first in every fight. 
Hamet the Moor ! Castile's devoted knight ! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, 
But not the light that shone in days gone by ; 
There is wild ardor in thy look and tone, 
But not the soul's expression once thine own, 
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may 

sway ? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtained 

breast. 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpressed. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The Yoga's turf is red with many a stain; 
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field. 
But all is peaceful now : the west is bright 
With the rich splendor of dejDarting light ; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, 
Glows like a purple evening cloud on high, 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'ersproad 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Yeleta's head ; * 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed are the toils and tumults qf the day 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away. 

8 Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region f the eveniiii 
or the west ; in a word, the Hesperia of tlie Greeks.— S(io 
Casiri's Bibl ot. ^rabico-HUpana, and Gibbon's Declini ami 
Fall, ^c. 

4 " Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada libre.i 
azul y blaiica, todos Uenos de ricos texidos de pluta, la^ 
plunias de la misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbradi 
divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones,y otros un mundc 
que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston."— Ouerros Cirila 
de IWanaaa, 

6 The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are thiisecj leJ 
Miilhacon and Picachn de Veleta 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



126 



[n silent musings wrapped : the slaughtered 

brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews — but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, 
Tlie wounded sought a shelter — and expired.^ 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
rill, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose and solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined, 
"Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind. 
The harassed warrior, yielding to the power. 
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour. 
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm ; 
His wrongs, hi? woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
Thp past, the future, are a while forgot ; 
Ani* Hope, scarce owned, yet stealing o'er his 

breast, 
Half dares to whisper, "Thou shalt yet be 

blest ! " 

iSuch his vague musings — but a plaintive 

sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round ; 
A low, haK-stifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns : Who shares with him that lonely 

shade ? 
— A youthful warrior on his death bed laid. 
All rent and stained his broidered Moorish vest. 
The corselet shattered on hi? •;ieeding breast ; 
In his cold hand the brokei. falchion strained, 
With life's last force convulsively retained ; 
His plumage soiled with dust, with crimson dyed. 
And the red lance in fragments by his side : 
He lies forsaken — pillowed on his shield. 
His helmet raised, his lineaments revealed. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanished now 
The light once throned on that commanding 

brow ; 
Ana o'er that fading eye, still upward cast. 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, 
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Borne bitter thought of long-departed days. 

1 It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that 
Ihe dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were 
fcechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any 
vash or thicket on the field. 



" O, is it thus," he cries, " we meet at last 
Friend of my soul in years forever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold, ■ 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath. 
And Avith vain pity soothe the pangs of death ? 
Yet let me bear thee hence — while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thj 

veins, 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive ; 
Hope is not lost — and Osmyn yet may live ! 
And blest were he whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head ; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance a while bewildered straya t 
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed witu 

pain; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye. 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die , 
And the mind's grandeur, in its parting hour. 
Looks from that brow with more than wontet 

power. 

" Away ! " he cries, in accents of command. 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand 
" Apostate, hence ! my soul shall soon be frep 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee 
'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies ; 
Not for thi/ hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'etf 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar 
Be thine existence with a blighted name, 
Mine the bright death whic^ seals a warrior'u 
fame ! " 

The glow hath vanished from his cheek — hia 

eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting eiiyergy ; 
Frozen and fixed it seems — his broAV is •>.hi_- 
One struggle more — that noble heart is itilL 
Departed warrior ! were thy mortal throes, 
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, 
More keen, more bitter, than th' envenomed dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart ? 
Thy pangs were transient ; his shall sleep n* 

more. 
Till life's delirious dream itself be o'er ; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patrir t brave. 



l26 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



0, what a change that little hour hath wTOught 
In the high spirit and unbending thought ! 
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Btill Hamet struggles with indignant pride ; 
While his soul rises, gathering all its force, 
To meft the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love ham been 
Flis own, unchanged, through many a stormy 

scene ; 
Zsyda ! to thee his heart for refuge flies ; 
Thou still art faithful to afl'ection's ties. 
Yes let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, 
Thy gentle breast the tide will flrmly stem ; 
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

"Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands 
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet comiiiands ; 
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower, 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the 

world. 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furled. 
That hour is come — and, o'er the arms he 

bears, 
^. wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears : 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride ; 
But night befriends — through paths obscure 

he passed, 
And hailed the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove, 
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove : 
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, 
As formed alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts ! — not such as hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute with dark unbraided hair ; 
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien. 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat, 
rill his known accents every sense restore — 
«♦ My own loved Zayda ! do we meet once more ! " 
She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise. 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes ; 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow : 
Thanged is her aspect, and her tone severe — 
Hence, Aben-Zurrah ! death surrounds thee 

here ! " 
'• Zayda ! what means that glance, unlike thine 

own ? 
'•^''hat mean those woras, and thai unwonted 

tore i 



I will not deem thee changed — but in thy face 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace ! 
It was not thus in other days we met : 
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget 
O, speak once more — these rising doubts dispel 
One smile of tenderness, and ail is well ! 

*• Not thus we met in other days — O, no ! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then 
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, 
Leader of hostile bands ! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power, 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower." 

" And thou^ too, changed ! thine earthly vo\¥ 
forgot ! 
This, this alone was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorned, of every tie bereft. 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left . 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou ! the good angel of each brighter dream, 
Wert all the barrenness of life possessed 
To wake one soft afl'ection in my breast ! 
That vision ended — fate hath nought in store 
Of joy or sorrow e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zegri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu ! 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true ? " 

♦' Hamet ! O, wrong me not ! I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trace them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, a.d in the wasted form. 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker vrorm ! 
But words were idle — read my sufl'erings there, 
Where grief is stamped on all that once was fair. 

" O, wert thou still what once I fondly deemed , 
All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed 
My love had been devotion ! — till in death 
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the chief who leads a lawless band 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 
Th' apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stained the trophies of a glorious race 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful n 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonor's cloud 
O'er that young name had gathered as a>hroud, 
I then had mourned thee proudly, and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A nolble sorrow, cherished to the last, 
WTien every meaner woe had long be^n past 



THE ABEXCERRAGE. 



I2J 



Ves ! let afl'action weep — no common tear 
She sheds when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let nature mourn the dead — a grief like this, • 
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss ! " 

•■' High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall, 
Rath urged me onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
Mv soul, no dream of power ambition fires. 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred 

knows. 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda ! wilt thou his stern accuser be ? 
False to his country, he is true to thee ! 
0, hear me yet ! — if Hamet e'er was dear, 
By our first vows, our young affection, hear ! 
Soon must this fair and royal city fall, 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall ; 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe ? 
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war : 
Fly, and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course — and passed ! " 

♦' Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is 
come, 
Hastened by thee, to seal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety ? — Woman, too, can die ! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismayed, to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail. 
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Called into life my spirit's latent power ; 
b ut I have energies that idly slept, 
While withering o'er my silent woes I wept ; 
Ajid now, when hope and happiness are fled, 
My soul is firm — for what remains to dread ? 
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear 
[f strength and courage dwell not with Despair r 

♦* Hamet ! farewell — retrace thy path again, 
l^o join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
^es ! on that soil hath Glory's footstep been, 
Vamf^s unforgotten consecrate the scene 1 



Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there 
Whoso voices call thee in the whispering air ? 
Unheard, in vain they call — their fallen son 
Hath stained the name those mighty spirits won. 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeathed his own through ages yet to be ! " 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
W^as lighted up with inborn majesty. 
While her fair form and youthful features c&ugh* 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous.' Awe-struck and amazed. 
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, 
As on some lofty vision — for she seemed 
One all inspired — each look with glory beamed, 
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of 

woes, 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
O, ne'er had Hamet deemed there dwelt eu 

shrined 
In form so fragile that unconquered mind ; 
And fixed, as by some high enchantment, thei«. 
He atood — till wonder yielded to despair 

'* The dream is vanished — daughter of mv 

foes ! 
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul ; yet deen 

thou not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 
O, formed for happier love, heroic maid ! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismayed. 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! — all words were 

vain 
From him who ne'er may view that form again — 
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss 

must be, 
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee ! " 

And is the warrior gone ? — doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a tear ? 
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid .' — yet who can 

teU 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell f 
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soui, 
Who best each feeling's agony control. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds in misery's eloquence relief; 
But who shall pierce those depths of silent w<m 
Whence breathes no language, whence no tean 

may flow ? 
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved ? 

1 *' Severe in youthful beauty." — Mu to» 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes ; 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 
Beholding anguish — all unknown to them. 

Fair city ! thou that 'midst thy stately fanes 
And gilded minarets, towering o'er the plains, 
[n Eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies ; 
While streams that bear thee treasures in their 

wave,^ 
Thy citron groves and myrtle gardens lave : 
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed — the days of fear, 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near ! 
Within, aroimd thee, are the trophied graves 
Of kings and chiefs — their children shall be 

slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, 
But there a race that reared them not shall 

dwell ; 
For 'midst thy councils discord stiU presides, 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides — 
Last of a L'ne whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeathed a throne, 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high, 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall, 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.- 
Whose are those tones, with power electric 

fraught 
To reach the source of pure exalted thought ? 

See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand ! 

1 Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. 
The Xenil runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry 
with its streams small particles of gold, and the Xenil of 
silver. When Charles V. came to Granada with the Em- 
press Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made 
of gold, which had been collected from the Darro. — See 
Bourgoanne's and other Travels. 

2 " At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were 
sunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and im- 
passioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds 
of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and 
awakened the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty 
^'lousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were pre- 
pared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack 
tlie besiiegcrs, when Abo Abdcli, more afraid of his subjects 
than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and 
made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that 
the Moors sliould be allowed tlie free exercise of their religion 
and laws; sliould be permitted, if they thought proper, to 
depart unmolested with tlieir effects to Africa ; and that he 
uimself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive 
fState, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent 
m money if he prefer 'd retiring to Barbary." — See Jacob'! 
'''rsv'is in ^oix. 



His mien is all impassioned, and his eye 
Filled with a light whose fountain is on 

high ; 
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, 
And inspiration beams upon his brow ; 
While, throno;iiig round him, breathless thou- 
sands gaze, 
As on some mighty seer of elder days 

*• Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed, 
The helmets glittering and the line ariajed: 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts ? " he 

cries ; 
" Children of conquerors ! in yoar strength 

arise ! 
high-born tribes ! O nam.es unstained by 

fear! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear ! ' 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed Mdth no blood but that of hostile *bands.* 
Wake, princes of the land ! the hour is come. 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore, 
When Tarilc's bands o'erspread the westerr 

shore ? ^ 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain,' 

3 Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the 
Moors of Granada, all of high distinction. 

4 The conquest of Granada was greatly fecilitated by the 
civil dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city 
Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuda, 
were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards ; others 
had embraced the cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and 
competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,) 
and all was jealousy and animosity. 

5 Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moor? into 
Spain. " The Saracens landed at the pillar or point oi Eu- 
rope. The corrupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar 
(Gebel al Tarik) describes the mountain of Tarik ; and the 
intrenchments of his camp were the first outline of those 
fortifications which, in the hnnds of our countiymen, have 
resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon. The ad 
jacent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent 
and progress of the Arabs ; and the defeat of his lieutenant 
Edeco, who had been commanded to seize and bind the pre- 
sumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the mag- 
nitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and 
counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic monarchy, 
assembled at the head of their followers ; and the title ot 
king of the Romans, whicli is employed by an Arabic his- 
torian, may be e.xcused by the close affinity of language, 
religion, and manners, between tlie nations of Spain." — 
Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. ix. pp. 472, 473. 

6 " In the neighborhood of Cadiz, tlie town of Xeres has 
been illustrated by the encounter wliich determined the fate 
of the kingdom ; the stream of tlie Guadalete, whicli falls 
into the bay, divided tlie two camps, and marked the ad- 
vancing and retreating skirmifhes of three succe.ssive days. 
On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and 
decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valor of the Saracen? 
they fainted under tie weight of multitudes, and the plain of 



THE ABENCERRAGE 



1,21 



And Afncs tecbir swelled through yielding 

Spain I ^ 
Is the lance broken, is the shield decayed, 
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed ? 
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth r 
To gvard the regions where our fathers' blood 
Hath bathed each plain and mingled with each 

flood; 
Where long their dust hath blended with the 

soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil ? 

•• O ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow. 
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain ! ye saw their 

might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight — 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace .-' 
With each m.emorial of the past around. 
Each mighty monument of days renowned ? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold, 
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould ! 
And the last lifedrop circling through my 

veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

** And yet one struggle ere our doom is sealed, 
One mighty efl'ort, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be 
In life the fettered, or in death the free ! " 

Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats 
high. 
And ardor flashes from each kindling eye ; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought ; 
And all is hushed around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead 
bodies. ' My brethren,' said Tarik to his surviving com- 
panions, ' the enemy is before you, the sea is behind ; 
whither would ye fly ? Follow your general ; Lam resolved 
either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of 
the Romans.' Besides the resource of despair, he confided 
in the secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of 
Count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The 
two princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the 
most importamt post : their well-timed defection broke the 
ranks of the Christians ; each warrior was promjrted by fear 
or suspicion to consult his personal safety ; and the remains 
of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight 
and pursuit of the three following days." — Gibbon's De- 
cline and Fall, &c., vol. ix. pp. 473, 474. 

1 The tecbivy the shout of onset used by the Saracens in 
MtJe. 

17 



But when his voice hath ceased, th' impc u 

ous cry 
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high ; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around. 
And fair Alhambra's inn.ost halls resound. 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! l-?ad us to the strife, 
To fame in death, or libcity in life ! " 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain displayed ! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save — 
E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claiiQ 
Your glorious trial on the field of fame. 
Your king hath yielded ! Valor's dream is o' er ; 
Power, wealth, and freedom are your own n\ 

more ; 
And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage — the stranger's chains 



"Fcrmossial. 



CANTO ni. 



il cor cUe bako taiito." 

HiPPOLlTO PlNDEMONTK 



Heroes of elder days ! untaught to yield. 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field ; 
Ye that around the oaken cross of yore ^ 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore. 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued. 
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose. 
In the last chastening- of your Moslem foes ! 
Rejoice ! — for Spain, arising in her strength, 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at lengtl 
And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain. 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vaii: 
And thou, the warrior bom in happy hour,* 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by. 
Conqueror of kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high , 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weOi, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

Thou, in that hour w^hen Mauritania's bands 
Rushed from their palmy groves and buri.ing 
lands, 

2 The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement cl 
popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdch » 
capitulation. " Aterrado Abo Abdcli con el alboroto 
temiendo no ser ya el Dueno de un pueblo amotin&d ), se 
apresiiro ^ concluir una capitulation, la menos dura qu* 
podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y otrecio en 
tregor ^ Granada el dia seis de Enero. "— Pasros en Om 
nada, vol. i. p. 296. 

3 The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle. 

* See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which that war 
rior is frequentlv stvled " he who was born in happv hour' 



130 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



E'er in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! * 
I'hen at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, 
By Leon lieard in shuddering awe profound, 
As through her echoing streets, in dread array, 
Be.ngs once mortal held their viewless way — 
Voices from worlds we know not — and the tread 
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, 
Thou and thy buried chieftains : from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, 
And join thy warriors with unearthly might 
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight. 
Those days are past — the crescent on thy 

shore, 
O realm of evening ! sets, to rise no more.^ 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ?^ 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power ! 
What the glad shout of each exulting voice ? 
»♦ Castile and Aragon ! rejoice, rejoice ! " 
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, 
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose. 
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, 

and lance, 
Through her long streets in knightly garb ad- 



O, ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, 
At jouat or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
High masque or solemn festival of yore. 



1 " Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from 
Africa against King Pon Alfonso, tlie eighth of that name, 
the mightiest power of the misbelievers that had ever been 
brought against Spain, since the destruction of the kings of 
Ihe Goths, the Cid Canipeador remembered his country in 
that great danger ; for the night before the battle was fought 
at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty 
Bound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the 
tramp of a great army passing through ; and it passed on to 
the royal monastery of St. Isidro, and there was a great 
knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who 
was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that the cap- 
tains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, 
and Count Ferran GJonzalez, and that they came there to call 
up King Don Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that 
church, that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And 
on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was 
fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, 
which was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won 
liver the Moors." — Southet's Chronicle of the Cid. 

2 The name of Andalusia, the region of evening, or of the 
vest, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province ao 
called, but to the whole peninsula. 

3 " En cste dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes 
•e la Cruz, de St. Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tre- 
moldran sobre la torre mas alta, llamada de la Vela ; y un 
exercito prosternado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y re- 
sonocimicnto, asistio al mas gloriosode los espectaculos." — 
raaeos er. Qrnnadat Tol. i : 299. 



The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies , 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towcn», 
Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers : 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, 
With helmets glittering as they move along, 
With broidered scarf and gem-best udded mail, 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 
Shields, gold embossed, and pennons floating far, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war. 
All brightened by the rich transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth dif- 
fuse — 
Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there, too, foremost 'midst the conquering 

brave. 
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs ! wave 
There Hamet moves ; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court : 
Calm, stern, collected — yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfessed .'' 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a suiftrer's mien. 

Hear' St thou the solemn yet exulting sound 
Of the deep anthem floating far around ? 
The choral voices, to the skies that raise 
The fuU majestic harmony of praise ? 
Lo ! where, surrounded by their princely train, 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately course they 

bend 
To where th' Alham bra's ancient towers ascend 
Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, 
W^hose lost descendrvUwS there shall dwell n. 

more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast : 

4 Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built bf 
Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds t 
" Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as sgly 
buildings as can well be seen, all huddled together, seenungljr 
without the least intention of forming one habitation out of 
them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all gravel and 
pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand 
yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indi» 
putably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, 
perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see excel- 
lent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and 
in ruins ; but nothing to bo met with any where else can 
convey ai idea of this edifice, except you t.-\ke it from to* 



THE abexcerragp:. 



Ui 



rhey ener — to their wondering sight is given 

A genii palace — an Arabian heaven ! * 

A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 

Its forms and color seem alike of air. 

Here, by sweet orange boughs half shaded o'er, 

The deep clear lath reveals its marble floor. 

Its margin frinji,ed with flowers, whose glowing 

hues 
Ihe calm transparence of its wave suff'use. 
'I here round the court, where Moorish arches 

bend, 
A^erial columns, richly decked, ascend ; 
Unlike the models of each classic race, 
Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace, 
But answering well each vision that portrays 
Arabian splendor to the poet's gaze : 
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all — a mingling glow 
Of rainbow tints, above, around, below ; 
Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins 
Of precious marble, and the vivid stains 
Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade, 
In gay festoons and fairy knots displayed. 
On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems 
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams. 
The royal conquerors pass — while still their 

sight 
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. 
Here tlie eye roves through slender colonnades, 
O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades ; 
Dark olive woods beyond, and far on high 
The vast sierra mingling with the sky. 
There, scattering far around their diamond spray, 
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, 
Through pillared halls, where, exquisitely 

wrought, 
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, 
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 
A wild, romantic, Oriental mien : 



decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii." — Swin- 
burne's Travels through Spain. 

1 " Passing round the corner of the emperor's palace, you 
aie admitted at a plain, unornamented door in a corner. On 
my first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement, as I 
itepped over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden trans- 
ported into a species of fairyland. Tiie first place you come 
to iz the court called the Cummuna, or del Mesucar, that is, 

fle common baths : an oblong square, with a deep basin of 
dear water in the middle ; two flights of marble steps lead- 
ing down to the bottom ; on each side a parterre of flowers, 
and a row of orange trees. Round the court runs a peri- 
Ityle paved with marble ; the arches bear upon very slight 
pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular 
orders of arcliitectiire. The ceilings and walls are incrus- 
lated with fretwork in stucco, so mii.ute and intricate that 
"he most patient draughtsman would find it diflicult to fol- 

ow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan." 
SwiRBiTRNt s Travels in SpaiTi. 



While many a verse, from Eastern bards of old, 
Borders the walls in characters of gold.' 
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, 
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 
'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silenc* 

brood, 
And all be lone — a splendid solitude. 
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songa. 
From mingling voices of exulting throngs ; 
Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,' 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air ; 
While every hall resounds, '* Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Aragon ! " * 

'Tis night — from dome and tower, in dazzling 

maze, 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; * 
Through long arcades their quivering lustre 

gleams. 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange gardens plays on fount and rill. 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 

2 The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with 
inscriptions in Arabic characters. " In examining this abode 
of magnificence," says Bourgoanne, "the observer is ever\ 
moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture of 
architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may 
be called a collection of fugitive pieces ; and whatever dura- 
tion these may have, time, with which every thing passes 
away, has too much contributed to confirm to them tha* 
title." — See Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 

8 Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. 

4 " Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra. 
y encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levanto la 
seSal de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los doa 
Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyesde armas, i grandea 
bozes dizieron, 'Granada! Granada! por su magestad, y 
por la reyna su muger.' La serinissima reyna D. Isabel, que 
vio la senal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre d« 
Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hincn de Rodi 
lias, y did infinitas gracias k Dios por la victoria que le avia 
dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de ia 
capilla del rey hiego H canto de organo canto Te Deum lau- 
damui. Fu6 tan grande el plazerquetodoslloravan. Luego 
del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de beli- 
cas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian sei 
Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valerosa Mu^a, tomaron inii 
dulzaynas y aiiafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambore* 
por toda la ciudad." — Historia de las Ghierras Civiles de, 
Oranada. 

5 *' Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella nocho 
jugaron galanamcnte alcancias y calias. Andava Gjanada 
aquella noche con tanta alegria, y con tantas lumiiiArias, 
que parecla que se ardia la terra." — Historia de las Oaerra* 
Civiles de Granada. 

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in tbe years lys 
and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary o the surrender of 
Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed m 
the city as a great festival and day of r yoicing ; and tha\ 
the populace on that occasion paid an innual visit o tb« 
Moorish palace. 



ui2 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless 

eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, 
Ar3 hearts nnsoothed by those delusive hours. 
Galled by the chain, though decked a Avhile with 

flo-wers ; 
Stern passions Avorking in th' indignant breast. 
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpressed, 
Heroic spirits, iinsubmitting yet — 
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret. 

From yon p- ud height, whose olive-shaded 

brow 
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene, 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien ? 
He who of heroes and of kings the son, 
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won ; 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have 

sealed, 
Wavering alike in council and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave. 
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies. 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies ; • 
Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around — for him too fair. 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires, 
The old majestic palace of his sires, 
The gay pavilions and retired alcoves. 
Bosomed in citron and pomegranate groves ; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in 

light, 
All in one moment bursting on his sight. 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanished years. 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
~Ween'st thou, Abdallah ? — Thou dost well 

to weep, 
U feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep ! 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not as a man to die.* 



1 " Los Gonicles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey 
Chico con ellos, (jiie noquiso estar en Espana, y en Africa le 
mataron los Moros de aquellas partes, porque perdio k 
Granada." — Gurnas Civiles de, Granada. 

2 Abo Abdeli, npnn leaving Granada, after its conquest by 
Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padiil to take 



The gale sighs mournfully through Zayds'i 
bower. 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower 
No voice, no step, is in her father's halls. 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls ■; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate. 
But all is hushed, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade, 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid : 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone. 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flowi 
The stream whose music lulled her to repose. 

But O, to him, whose self- accusing thought 
Whispers 'twas he that desolation wrought ; 
He who his country and his faith betrayed. 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid ; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale • 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind. 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, 
And seems to murmur — '• Thou hast driven hei 

hence ! " 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recalled again r 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, 
His name can rouse no feeling now — but scorn. 
O, bitter hour ! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest ; 
The avenger's task is closed : ^ he finds too lat* 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 
He was a lofty spirit, turned aside 
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and 

pride. 
And onward, in its new tumultuous course, 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, 
And ask if such could be its native sphere. 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er. 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more 



a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the siph? 
he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother 
the Snltaness Ayxa : "Thou dost well to weep, like a wo- 
man, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not 
how to defend and die for hke a man." 

3 " El rey mando, que si qiiedavan Zegn.J, (\\\e nr. viviesse« 
en Granada, por la nialdad qui hi/.ieron contra los Aoencei 
rapes." — Gurrras Civile? ie Gmnadi. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



Ui 



The feverish energies of passion close, 
And his heart sinks in desolate repose, 
Turns sickening' from the world, yet shrinks not 

less 
t'roni its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flaoh of armor to the sunbeam's glare, 
Midst the wild Alpuxarras ; * there, on high, 
Where mountain snows are mingling with the 

sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke. 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke 

O ye dread scenes ! where nature dw^ells alone. 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, 
Veiled by the mists and girdled by the storms, — 
Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding 

Cfxves, 
That hold communion with the torrent waves ; 
And ye, th' unstained and everlasting snows, 
That dwell above in bright and still repose ; 
To you, in every clime, in every age. 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage. 
Hath Freedom led her sons — untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 
She, like the mountain eagle, still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquered heights. 
And build her eyry in defiance proud, 
To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, 

swells, 
Wild Alpuxarras ! through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among. 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength has nerved each 

frame. 
And made each heart the temple of her flame. 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 
earth 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth. 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear, 



1 " The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, 
and the cities of Tangier ?nd Ceuta, are discovered from 
Uieir summits ; they ar« about seventeen leagues in length, 
from Yeles Malaga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and 
abound with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. 
!n thesf mountains thv wretched remains of the Moors took 
«fug« ' -BouRGOAtfNE's Travels in, Spain, 



All undismayed, privation and distress, 

And smile the roses of the wilderness : 

And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 

In the deep forest or the cavern cell. 

And rear their offspi;ing 'midst the rocks, to be 

If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band are veterans, o'ei vho*i 

head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shci 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O royal city ! and the wreck of all 
They loved and hallowed most : doth aught re 

main 
For these to prove of happin !ss or pain ? 
Life's cup is drained — earth fades before theii 

eye; 
Their task is closing — they have but to die. 
Ask ye why fled they hither r — that their doom 
Might be, to sink unfettered to the tomb. 
And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, 
And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare 
And sufl'er all things — fallen on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze. 
As on the arena where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 
Such are the tenants of the mountaiii hold. 
The high in heart, unconquered, uncontrolled : 
By day, the huntsmen of the wild — by night. 
Unwearied guardians of the watchfire's light, 
They from their bleak majestic home have caugh 
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, 
While all around them bids the soul arise 
To blend with nature's dread sublimities. 
— But these are lofty dreams, and must not oe 
Where tyranny is near : the bended knee, 
The'eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, 
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires , 
Nor must the dwellers of the rock looK. down 
On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. 
What warrior band is toiling to exploio 
The mountain pass, with pine wood shadovved 

o'er, 
Startling with martial sounds each ruae reces3, 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness ? 
These are the sons of Spain ! — Your ices art 

near, 
O exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 
Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost f avei 
Pour like the torrent in its might of Mave? ' 

Who leads the invaders on : — his features bea. 
The deep- worn traces of a c-ilm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asVs ?.jt sympathy 



134 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



ris he ! 'tis he again ! the apostate chief ; 
He I'.omes in al] the sternness of his grief. 
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to ^vield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle field, 
Against his country's children, though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds : 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 
To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. 
So shall remorse and love the heart release. 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for 

peace. 
The mountain echoes are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, 
Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stained till 

then ; 
While swell the war note and the clash of spears 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers. 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada ! wait 
In dread suspense the tidings of their fate. 
But he — whose spirit, panting for its rest. 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his 

breast — 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aimed at another's breast, would still advance — 
Courts death in vain ; each w^eapon glances by, 
As if for him 'twere bliss too great to die. 
Yes, Aben-Zurrah ! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee ere nature's last repose ; 
Thou know'st not yet what vengeance fate can 

w^reak, 
Nor all the heart can siiff'er ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell ; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath passed, 
A.nd age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, 
Borne down by numbers and o'erpowered by toil. 
Dispersed, disheartened, through the pass they 

fly, 

Fierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff" on high ; 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy patli the footsteps of 
despair. 

Yet he, to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home. 
Still urges onward — undismayed to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread. 
But fear is for the happy — thexj may shrink 
Prom the steep precipice or torrent's brink ; 



They to whom earth is paradise — their dooni 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb 
Not such his lot, who, schooled by fate severe, 
Were but too blest if aught remained to fear.' 
Up the rude crags, w^hose giant masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below ; 
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way. 
He holds his venturous track : supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwcl 
Half in mid air, as balanced by a spell. 
Now hath his footstep gained the summit's hesi 
A level span, M-ith emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath flowers rise, 
And the rock rose unnoticed blooms and dies . 
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's chartered guest, the sunbeam, scarce can 

stray ; 
Around, untrodden woods ; and far abovp, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove, 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fixed, inherent dyes 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies ; '^ 
And the pure glittering snow realm, yet vaoxr 

high. 
That seems a part of heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, 
Pathless the scene as Libya's desert sands ; 
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering Avord 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown. 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his 
ear, 
He follows, reckless 'C ^i** bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends, 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends; 

1 " Plut A Dieu que je craignisse ! " — Jindrom.aq%c 

2 Mrs. Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks tf :he 
Rhine, thus describes the colors of granite rocks in the 
mountains of the Bergstrasse : " The nearer we approached 
these mountains, the more we had occasion to admire the 
various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipicos 
were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a 
blush approaching to lilac ; and sometimes gleams of a pale 
yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon theii 
sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too 
near these heights to be deceived by the illusions of aeria. 
coloring ; the real hues o' their features were as beautiful m 
their magnitude was su'ol.uie." 



THE ABENCERKAGE. 



rierciiig the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, 
Eternal twilight's reign : — those mazes past, 
Ihe glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, 
And the lone wanderer now hath reached the 

source 
Whence the wave gushes, foaming en its course. 
But there he pauses - - for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyry rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round — 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. 
— What earthly feeling unabashed can dwell 
In nature's mighty presence ? — 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods. 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods ? 
These tlv'^ir own grandeur on the soul impress, 
And bia each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave ; 
Shadowed by giant oaks, and rude and lone. 
It seems the temple of some power unknown. 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet ! at the tone ? 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan ? 
As some loved sound that long from earth had 

fled. 
The unforgotten accents of the dead ! 
E'en thus it rose — and springing from his trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliff's, he gains the cavern floor ; 
Its dark-green moss with blood is sprinkled 

o'er : 
He rushes on — and lo ! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughtered sire she bends, 
Lost in despair ; — yet, as a step draws nigh. 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity. 
She lifts her head, and, all subdued by grief, 
( Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; 
While Tcve her thoughts, unconscious of the 

past. 
And every woe forgetting — but the last. 

" Com'st thou to weep with me ? — for I am 
left 
A.lone on earth, of every tie bereft. 
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier ; 
rfia cliild may call, but he no more shall hear. 



He sleeps — but never shall those eyes uncloBc 
'Twas not my voice that lulled him to repose ; 
Nor can it break his slumbers. — Dost thot 

mourn ? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn r 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow I ' 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well- 
known name. 
When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit came 
Each dark remembrance — by affliction's powei 
A while eff'aced in that o'erwhelming hour. 
To wake with tenfold strength : 'twas then hei 

eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty. 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow. 

"Away ! I dream ! O, how hath sorrow's might 
Bowed down my soul, and quenched its native 

light — 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thij tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thj'- hand. 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band ? 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair ; — 
'Twas then he fell — he fell ! — and thou wert 

there ! 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge 'midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee ? — Thou hast taughl 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought ! 
'Twill soon be past — I bow to Heaven's decre»T, 
Which bade each pang be ministered by thee." 

'* I had not deemed that aught remained belo 
For me to prove of yet untasted woe ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda ! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
O, hear me yet ! — I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave ; 
But in the fierce confusion of the strife, 
In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 
And let me share thy sorrows ! — badst t"hou 

known 
All I have felt in silence and alone, 
E'en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last, 
A grief like mine might expiate all the past. 

" But O, for thee, the loved and preciou 
flower, 
I So fondly reared in luxury's guarded bower, 



36 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



From every danger, every storm secvired, 
How hast thou suffered ! what hast thou en- 
dured ! 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ! 
These rocks tliy dwelling ! thou, who shouldst 

have known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone ! 
O, yet forgive ! — be all my guilt forgot. 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot ! " 

" That lot is fixed — 'twere fruitless to repine: 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. 
I may forgive — but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 
N9, Hamet ! no ! — too deeply are these traced ; 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep. 
E'en now, prophetic of my early doom, 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died ; 
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, 
Li pain and perU — I forsook him not. 

*• And now, farewell ! — behold the summer 
day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw 

nigh, 
With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
O, yet in time, away ! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare ! 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn 

Save me that one last pang — to see thee die ! " 
E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing 

tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave — they enter — slow their 

pace, 
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner's 

facs; 
And al. is hushed, till he who seems to wait 
In silent stern devotedness his fate, 
Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns ; 
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns. 
And voices rise, and swords have left their 

sheath : 
Bl^od must atone for blood, and death for death ! 
They close around him : lofty still his mien, 
Pi«4 ch^ek unaltered, and his brow serene. 



Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry , 
Fruitless her prayer, unmarked her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to drfend. 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling pa^t, 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
O, not in vain its daring ! — for the blow 
Aimed at his heart hath bade her lifeblood flow 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast 
Where in that hour her head ma\ calmly rest, 
For he is saved ! Behold the Zegri band. 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand : 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'ei 
They weep for her who soon shall weep«no more 
She, she alone is calm : — a fading smile. 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while j 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

** Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved ! 
Yes ! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried ; 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrilled, 
But sterner duties called — and were fulfilled. 
And I am blest ! — To every holier tie 
My life was faithful, — and for thee 1 die ! 
Nor shall the lovt so purified be vain ; 
Severed on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell ! — And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, 
Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and 

spare ! 
O, be his guilt forgotten in his %N oes. 
While I, beside my sire, in peac restore." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, 

and death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task or. parth is done, 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died — O, who ma}^ paint 
The grief to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, 
By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed ; 
These have no words — nor are by words poi 

trayed. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain air. 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive muraiurs bea 
Far o'er the Alpuxarras ; — wild its tone, 
And rocks and caverns echo, '• Thou art gone! 

" Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 
To share his tomb who paye thee birih • 



THE WIDOW OF CKESCENTIUS. 



131 



Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 

It was not formed for earth. 
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 
Which I rightly passed and left no trace. 

>' But calmly sleep ! — for thou art free, 
And hands unchained thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 
Life's few and evil days ! 

Wcr shalt thou watch, with tearful eye. 

The lingering death of liberty. 

"Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom 

Didst early to the storm resign : 
We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who cannot weep for thine ! 
For us, whose ever^'- hope is fled, 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 

" The days have been, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flowed ; 

Now, as a home from grief and fear, 
We hail thy dark abode ! 

We, who but linger to bequeath 

Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

** Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years ; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again. 

" Have we not seen despoiled by foes 
The land our fathers won of yore r 

And is there yet a pang for those 
Who gaze on this no more ? 

that like them 'twere ours to rest ! 

Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest ! " 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's 

grave. 
Severed in life, united in the tomb — 
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom ! 
ITieir dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal 

moan ; 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watchfire's blaze. 
Amidst those rocks, in long- departed days, 
(When freedom fled, to hold, sequestered there. 
The stern and lofty councils of despair,) 
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, 
'A^ho the lone hours with mournful strains be- 
guiled, 

18, 



Hath taught his mountain home the tale of thos* 
Who thus have sufl'ered, and who thus repose 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS 

[" In the reign of Otho III., Emperor of Germany, tli( 
Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentins, who anientlj 
desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, niide ? 
bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authorit* 
of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal 
contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in tne Mclc n( 
Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the 
Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attack;' 
upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations ; and, 
pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius 
and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leadei 
was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, 
with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, con- 
cealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults tu 
which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge 
her husband and herself On the return of Otho from a pil- 
grimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of re- 
morse had induced him to undertake, she found means to 
be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence ; and a 
poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause 
of his painful death." — Sismondi, History jf the Italiar. 
Republics, vol. i.] 

" li'orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tienneni 
encore la tete levee." — Mad. de Stael. 

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades. 
Where dwelt, in days departed long. 
The sons of battle and of song. 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears ; 
But o'er the wrecks of other years. 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; ' 

1 "J'^tais alle passer quelques jours seuls i Tivoli. Jt 
parcourusles environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana 
Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me refugiai 
dans les Sallesdes Thermes voisins du Pecile, (monumens de 
la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renverse le pan d'un mur 
en s'elevant. Dans un petit salon octogon, ouvert devant 
moi, une vigne vierge avait perce la voute de l'edifice,et son 
gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueiix, montait le long tlu avji 
comme un serpent. Autour de moi, ;\ travers ks arcades des 
tuines, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Ro- 
maine. Des buissons de surean remplissaient les salles A6- 
sertes ou venaient se refugier quelques merles solitaires 
Les fragmens de ma^onnerie etaient tapissees de feirftleade 
scolopendre, dont la verdure satinee se dessinait comme un 
travail en mosai'que sur la blancheur des marbres : ^i et li 
de hauts cypres rempla^aient les colonnes tombdes dans ces 
palais de la Mort; I'acanthe sauvage rainpait i leurs pieds, 
sur des debris, comme si la nature s'6tait plu k reproduirt 
6ur ces chefs-d'oeuvre mutiles d'architecture, i-ornement 
de leur beaut6 passee ^hatea; riand's Souvenirs / 
Itali* 



3f 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The cypress, in funereal grace, 
Usurps the vanished column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine and ruined frieze 
The wall flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus leaves the marble hide 
They once adorned in sculptured pride .. 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ? ' 
Now Athens weeps her shattered fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian reared 
From Tibur's 'ale have disappeared. 
We need no i"<-escient sibyl there 
The doom of grandeur to declare ; 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time ; 
Each relic utters Fate's decree — 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tibur's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale ? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home ? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record 
There dwelt the world's departed lord, 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty or decay, 
And sunshine on each glowing hill 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace — but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom.' 
Though vanished with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 



I The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa were copies 
>f the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions — 
Jie Lycaeum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the 
Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tenipe, &c. 

a The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St. Angelo, 
"^as first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his suc- 
lessful defence of Rome agaitist the Goths. " The lover of 
the arts," says Gibbon, " mu>t read with a sigh that the 
works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty 
pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the be- 
Biegers." He iidds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping 
Faun of the harberini palace was found, in a mutilated 
state, when the ditch of St. Angelo was cleansed under 
Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was 
made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and 
bastions, outworks, &c., were added to the original edifice, 
which had been strii)pe(l of its marble covering, its Corinthi- 
»n pillars, and the bra/eu cone which crowned »»» »"»ninit. 



Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought 
Each bodying some immortal thought. 
Which o'er that temple of the dead 
Serene but solemn beauty shed. 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In time's abyss or Tiber's wave ; ' 
Yet dreams more lofty and more fair 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind 
Expanding when all else declined. 
In twilight years, when only '.:^ey 
Recalled the radiance passed away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home. 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove in evil days 
Again to kindle glory's rays. 
Whose spirit sought a path of light 
For those dim ages far too bright — 
Crescentius — long maintained the strife 
Which closed but with its martyr's life, 
And left th' imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame. 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die ; * 
And thou, whose Roman soul the last 
Spoke with the voice of ages past,* 

3 " Les plus beaux nionumens des arts, les plus admirable? 
statues, ont ete jetees dans le Tiber, et sont cachees sous 
ses flots. dui salt si, pour les chercher, on ne le detournera 
pas un jour de son lit ? Mais quand on songe que les chefs- 
d'ceuvres du genie humain sont peut-etre \k devant nous, et 
qu'un CEil plus per^ant les verrait k travers les ondes, I'on 
6prouve je ne sais quelle emotion, qui renait A Rome sans 
cesse sous diverses foruies, et fait trouver une societe pour 
lapensee dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs." 
— Mad. de Stael. 

4 Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent cham 
pion of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore 
the ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in 
the year 1155, by Adrian IV. This event is thus described 
by Sismondi, Hintoire des RepublUjues Italienncs, vol. ii. pp. 
68, 69. " Le prefet demeura dans le chateau Saint Ange 
avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sui I? 
place destinee aux executions, devant la porte du peuple. 
Arnaud de Brescia, eleve sur un biicher, fut attach^ k uv 
poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit m^surcr des yeu.t loi 
trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son ichafaud j 
elles font presqu'une moitie de Rome. T'est li qu'habi- 
toient les hommes qu'il avoit si souvent appeles i la libert6 
lis reposoient encore "^n paix, ignorant le danger de leur W.gis- 
latour. Le tumulte (le rexecution et la flauime du Imchei 
reveillerent les Romains ; ils s'armercut, ils accoururent 
mais trop tard ; et les cohortes du pape repousserent, avc 
leurs lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloien 
du moins recueiller ses cendres comme do precieuses r© 
liques." 

6 " Posterity wi'l "ompa.'<» the virtues and failings oi 

this extraorlinary n:^n , but in a long period of anarch> 

i and servitude, the name ol Rienzi ha« often been c*>'eb.'atefl 



THE \VIDOA\' OF CllESCENTIUS. 



l? 



Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled 

To mingle with the glorious dead, 

That 'midst the world's degenerate race 

They vainly sought a dwelling-place, 

Within that house of death didst brood 

O'er visions to thy ruin wooed. 

Yet , worthy of a brighter lot, 

Rie zi, be thy faults forgot ! 

For thou, when all around thee lay 

Chained in the slumbers of decay — 

So sunk 9ach heart, that mortal eye 

Had scai-ce a ear for liberty — 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair ! ^ 

'Tis morn — and nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies ; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow-clad Apennine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height, 
And yellow Tiber winds in light, 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strewed 
The wide Campagna's solitude. 
Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanished race ; 
Yet, o'er the ravaged path of time — 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, 
Where nature still, though empires fall, 
Holds her triumphant festival — 
E'en desolation wears a smile, 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 
And heaven's own light, earth's richest bloom, 
Array the r\iin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air, 
Heeds not how fair the scene below. 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 
Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And they, the Pleiades of earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, 

li the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Ro- 
man patriots." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. 
kt. 3(52. 

1 " Le consul Tarentius Varron avoit fui honteusement 
usqu'^ Venouse. Cet hoinrne, de la plus basse naissance, 
n'avoit ete eleve au coiisulal que pour niortifier la noblesse : 
mais le senat ne voulut pas jouir de ce nialheureux tri- 
omphe J 11 vit combien il etoit n6cessaire qu'il s'attirat dans 
cette occasion la confiance du peuple — il alia au-devant 
Varron, et le remercia de ce qii''il n'avoit pas desespere de 
ui rtjiublique.^' — Montesquieu's Grandeur et Decadence 
iu Homains. 



Lie spread beneath; not now her glance 
Roves o'er that vast sublime expanse ; 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 
On Hadrian's massy tomb alone ; 
There, from the storm, when Freedom fled 
His faithful few Cresccntius led ; 
While she, his anxious bride, who now 
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 
Sought refuge in the hallowed fane, 
Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er, 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and tl: e rights of yore, 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around. 
Again his native Rome shall see 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress tower - 
Her ardent heart with joy elate. 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above. 
All vivified with hope and love 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy ; 
A meaning lofty and inspired. 
As by her native daystar fired ; 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassioned thought 
As fancy sheds, in visions bright. 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ; 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace. 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyei 
Seem from the fire within to rise. 
But deepened by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw. 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high- wrought dreams of loveliness, — 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see ! — the banner of the brave 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
'Tis lowered — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry. 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome, 
Pour through the crowded streets of Romi 



i4G 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Now from her watchtower on the height, 
With step as fabled wood nymph's light, 
She flies — and SA\ift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead, 
And paths which track a glowing waste, 
She traverses in breathless haste ; 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind, 
Still passing on, hath reached the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Thronged are the streets, and, still renewed, 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 

— Is it their high-souled chief to greet 
That thus the Roman thousands meet ? 
"With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crescentius ! thine in song to blend ; 

And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry ? 

— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round, 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Quick is each step and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 

Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high. 
Till rose suspense to agonj- 1 — 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close. 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands. 
With fearless mien but fettered hands ? 
The ministers of death are nigh. 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind 
Which was not formed for chains to bind. 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Cresci'ntius ! freedom's daring son. 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won ? 
O, worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, 
The soul of Rome indignant woke ? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone,' 

I Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were 
ler* in th9 temple of Mars, Plutarch give:; the follov'ing 



Sunk is the crowning city's throne ; ' 
Th' illusions, that around her cast 
Their guardian spells, have long 1 een past 
Thy life hath been a shot star's ray, 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at freedom's ruined shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fixed upon the deep-blue sky. 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled 
Around in desolation spread - 
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, 
Recording triumphs passed away ; 
Works of the mighty and the free, 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be. 
Though their bright course hath left a trace 
Nor years nor sorrows can eff'ace. 
Why changes now the patriot's mien, 
Erewhile so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death control 
The might of that commanding soul ? 



account : " In the eighth year of Numa's reign, a pestilence 
prevailed in Italy ; Rome also felt its ravages. While Jht 
people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen 
buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this 
he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeria and 
the Muses : that the buckler was sent down for the preser- 
vation of the city, and should be kept with great care ; that 
eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size 
and fashion, in order that, if any person were disposed to 
steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which fell 
from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the 
place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently con- 
versed with the Muses, should be consecrated to those di- 
vinities ; and that the spring which watered the ground 
should be sacred to the use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to 
sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation 
of the pestilence is said to have confirmed the truth of thii 
account." — Life of JVuttio. 

2 " Who hath taken this counsel a^iinst Tyre, the crowrv 
ing citij, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers art 
tlie honorable of the earth .' " — Isaiah, chap, xxiii. 

3 " \]n melange bizarre de grandeur d'ame et de foiblesse 
entroit des cette epoque (I'onzieme sieclb^ dans le caractere 
des Romains. Un mouvement genereux vers les grandes 
choses faisoit place tout-i-coup k I'abattement ; ils passoienf 
de la liberie la plus orageuse, i la servitude la plus avilis- 
sante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les portiques deserts 
de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le 
sentiment de leur impuissance ; au milieu de ces monumene 
de leur domination passee, les citoyens eprouvoient d-iine 
maniere trop decourageante leur propre nullite. Le noiB 
des Romaius qu'ils portoient ranimoit frequemment leur 
entliousiasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd'hui ;mai3 
bientftt la vue de Rome, du forum d6sert, des sept colline* 
de nouveau rendues au piturage des troupeaux, des templei 
desoles, des monumens tombant en ruiue, les ramenoit i 
sentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Romains d'autrefois." — S:t 
MONDi, Histoire des Ripubllques Jtaliejines, vol. i. p. 172. 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIXJS. 



U 



No ! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 

Which told of bitterest agony ? 

Fie heard it, and at once, subdued. 

Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 

He heard it, and his heart too well 

Whence rose tliat voice of "vvoe can tell ; 

And 'midst the gazing throngs around 

One well-known form his glance hath found — 

One fondly loving and beloved, 

In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 

Yes ! in the wildness of despair, 

She, his devoted bride, is there. 

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies. 

The light of frenzy in her eyes : 

But ere her arms can clasp the form 

Wluch life ere long must cease to warm — 

Ere on his agonizing breast 

Her heart can heave, her head can rest — 

Checked in her course by rutliless hands, 

Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 

With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 

Frozen and fixed in horror's trance ; 

Spell bound, as every sense were fled, 

A.nd thought o'erwhelmed, and feeling dead ; 

And the light waving of her hair. 

And veil, far floating on the air. 

Alone, in that dread moment, show 

She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more ; 
But hers — so vainly formed to prove 
The pure devotedness of love, 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high — 
When consciousness again shall wake, 
Hath now no refuge but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain. 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride. 
If each warm hope at once hath died, 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower. 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scattered — ne'er to reunite. 



HIast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled ? 



A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell ? 
Italia ! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the bravt 
And nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on earth. 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smile'^ 
When thou Avert freedom's favored child ; 
Though fane and tomb alike are low. 
Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's glow 
And, robed in that exulting ray. 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay — 
O, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, 
In nature's pomp magnificent ! 
What marvel if, when all was lost, 
Still on thy bright, enchanted coast, 
Though many an omen warned him thence, 
Linger'd the lord of eloquence,* 
Still gazing on the lovely sky. 
Whose radiance wooed him — but to die ? 
Like him, who would not linger there, 
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair ? 
Who '^idst thy glowing scenes could dwell, 
Nor bid a while his griefs farewell ? 



1 " As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding 
a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted alon^ 
to Circasum with a favorable wind. The pilots were pre- 
paring immediately to sail trom thence, but whether it was 
that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes 
in Caesar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs 
on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination 
Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made 
again for the sea. He passed the night in the most per- 
plexing and horrid thoughts ; insomuch, that he was some- 
times inclined to go privately into Ctesar's house, and stab 
himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the 
divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred 
from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally 
distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in 
the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by 
sea to Cajeta, where he had a deliglitful retreat in the sum- 
mer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a teiwple of 
Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with 
great noise towards Cicero's vessel as it was making and 
They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some 8«J 
croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. AU 
looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero went on ahcft, 
and, entering his house, lay down to repose hijnsel£ In the 
meantime a number of the crows settled ip t»>e narD"!©! 
window, and croaked in the most doleful manner .^^e 0/ 
them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted 
with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had 
covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began tc 
reproach themselves. ' Shall we,' said they, ' remain to b« 
spectators of our master's murder,' Shall we not proteci 
him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the 
brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention ? ' 
Then, partly by entreaty, partly ' v force, they got him .nti 
his litter, and carried him towai.ls the sea." — Plutarch 
Life of Cicero. 



142 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Hath not thy pure and genial air 

Balm for all sadness but despair ? * 

No ! there are panf2;s Avhose deep-worn trace 

Not all thy magic can efface ! 

Hearts by unjiindness wrung may learn 

The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 

Time may steal on with silent tread, 

And dry the tear that mourns the dead, 

May change fond love, subdue regret. 

And teach e'en vengeance to forget ; 

But thou, Remorse ! there is no charm 

Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 

Vain are bright suns and laughing skies 

To soothe thy victim's agonies. 

The heart once made thy burning throne, 

Still, whUe it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius ! on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light, 
Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower, 
With awful voice and frowning mien, 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
O, thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

"Where, through Gargano's woody dells. 
O'er bending oaks the north wind swells,^ 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosomed in umbrageous gloom, 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
"Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 

1 " Now purer air 
Meets hi;= approacli, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal deliiht and joy, able to drive 
All sadness liUt despair." — Milton. 

2 Mo'.mt Gargano. "Thisridgeof mountains forms a very 
large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated 
from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and 
Ban Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the moun- 
tains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought 
to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent 
with »he loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of 
Karga^us : 

* Aquilonibus 
Querceta Gargani laborant, 
Et foliis viduantur orni.'— Horace. 

" There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and com- 
»on oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna ash. The 
•heltcrcd valleys pre industriously cultivated, and seem to be 
» est with luxuriant vegetation." — Swinburne's Travels 



Around that dweller of the wild 

There "bright appearances" have smile 1,' 

And angel wings at eve have been 

Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 

And oft from that secluded bower 

Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour 

A swell of viewless harps, a sound 

Of warbled anthems pealing round. 

O, none but voices of the sky 

Might wake that thrilling harmony, 

Whose tones, whose very echoes made 

An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 

Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ; 

Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 

And veiled his low sepulchral stone : 

Yet still the spot is holy, still 

Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 

And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 

Aerial vesper hymns may hear 

Around those forest precincts float, 

Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. 

Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 

To that rude shrine's departed saint. 

And deem that spirits of the blest 

There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers ; 
And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one. Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search ! — his troubled breva 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er, 
The hopes that cheered it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and, day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown, 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour: 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 

8 " In yonder nether world where shall I seek 

His bright appearances, or footstep race?" — ^^n '■n* 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



I4» 



And suns, that shed on all below 

Their full and vivifying glow, 

From him alone their power withhold, 

And leave his heart in d!\rkness cold. 

Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair — 

He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek a while. 
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain 
Of po-^rei *o lull all earthly pain — 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
Th" ethereal music of a dream, 
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 
Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 
Sweet is that lay ! and yet its flow 
Hath language only given to woe ; 
And if at times its wakening swell 
Some tale of glory seems to tell, 
Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 
Lost in a dirge's harmony. 
O, many a pang the heart hath proved, 
Hath deeply suffered, fondly loved. 
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 
Such deep impassioned eloquence ! 
Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel boy — 
He is no child of hope and joy ! 
Though few his years, yet have they been 
Such as leave traces on the mien. 
And o'er the roses of our prime 
Brr.athe other blights than those of time. 

Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, 
By grief unsoftened and unbowed. 
O, there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart. 
And, rushing with an earthquake's power. 
That makes a desert in an hour. 
Rouse the dread passions in their course. 
As tempests wake the billows' force ' — 
'Tis sad, on youthful Guido's face, 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
O, where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind ? 

His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays : 
His full dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light, 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow » 
And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A gla.ace of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 



Whate'er that thouglit, still unexpressed 

Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 

The pride his haughty brow reveals 

All other passion weU conceals — 

He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 

In music's eloquence alone ; 

His soul's deep voice is only poured 

Through his fuU song and swelling chord. 

He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half- unearthly power essay 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along, 
W^here Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scattered o'er the silent plains ; 
Or, lingering 'midst each ruined shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful, yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad genius of the scene. 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice re:ft,lls 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
When hushed is every meaner sound, 
And the deep moonlight calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flo\^^l — 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, 
He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 
And 'midst those dwellings of decay 
At times \Aill breathe so sad a lay, 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again, 
But breathe a more exulting strain. 
Young Guido ! for a while forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot. 
And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along ! — 
The feast is spread, and music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall. 
And banners wave and trophies shin© 
O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 
And Otho seeks a while to chaae 
The thoughts he never can erase, 
Ajid bid the voice, whose murmun 

deep 
Rise like a spir '. on his sleep 



144 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


The still small voice of conscience — die, 


" Deem'st thou my mind of reason void ? 


Lost in the din of revelry. 


It is not frenzied — but destroyed ! 


On his pule brow dejection lowers, 


Ay ! view^ the wreck with shuddering thought 


But that shall yield to festal hours ; 


That work of ruin thou iiast wrought ! 


A gloom is in his faded eye, 


The secret of thy doom to tell. 


But that from music's power shall fly ; 


My name alone suffices well ! 


His wasted cheek is wan with care, 


Stephania ! — once a hero's bride ! 


But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 


Otho ! thou know'st the rest — he died. 


Wake, Guido ' wake thy numbers high. 


Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, 


Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 


The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 


And pour upon the enraptured ear 


And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 


Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 


How couldst thou trust in aught again ? 


Let the rich manthng goblet flow, 




And banish aught resembling woe ; 


" He died, and I was changed — my soui 


And if a thought intrude of power 


A lonely wanderer, spurned control. 


To mar the bright convivial hour, 


From peace, and light, and glory hmied. 


Still must its influence lurk unseen, 


The outcast of a purer world. 


And cloud the heart — but not the mien ! 


I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown, 




And lived for one dread task alone. 


Away, vain dream ! — on Otho's brow 


The task is closed, fulfilled the vow — 


StiU darker lower the shadows now ; 


The hand of death is on thee now. 


Changed are his features, now o'erspread 


Betrayer ! in thy turn betrayed. 


With the cold paleness of the dead ; 


The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 


Now crimsoned with a hectic dye. 


Thine hour is come — the time hath been 


The burning flush of agony ! 


My heart had shrunk from such a scene ; 


His lip is quivering, and his breast 


That feeling long is passed — my fate 


Heaves with convulsive pangs oppressed ; 


Hath made me stern as desolate. 


Now his dim eye seems fixed and glazed, 




And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 


" Ye that around me shuddering stand, 


And as, with unavailing aid. 


Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 


Around hum throng his guests dismayed, 


Movirn ye a guilty monarch's doom ? 


He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 


Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! 


Hath power to falter — " This is death !" 


He sleeps unhonored — yet be mine 




To share his low, neglected shrine. 


Then rushed that haughty child of 


His soul with freedom finds a home. 


song, 


His grave is that of glory — Rome ' 


Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. 


Are not the great of old with her, 


FiUed with a strange delirious light. 


That city of the sepulchre ? 


His kindling eye shone wildly bright ; 


Lead me to death ! and let me share 


And on the sufferer's mien a while 


The slumbers of the mighty there ! " 


Gazing with stern vindictive smile. 




A feverish glow of triumph dyed 


The day departs — that fearful day 


His burning cheek, while thus he cried : — 


Fades in calm loveliness away : 


•' Yes ! these are death pangs — on thy brow- 


From purple heavens its Hngering beam 


Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 


Seems melting into Tiber's stream. 


0, well was mixed the deadly draught. 


And softly tints each Roman liill 


And long and deeply hast thou quaffed ; 


With glowing light, as clear and still 


And bitter as thy pangs may be. 


As if, unstained by crime or woe. 


They are but guerdons meet from me ! 


Its hours had passed in silent flow. 


Yet these are but a moment's throes — 


The day sets calmly — it hath been 


Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 


Marked with a strange and awful scene 


Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath — 


One guilty bosom throbs no more. 


My life hath been a lingering death, 


And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 


Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 


And thou, ere yet another sun 


K blood spot on the page of time ! 


His burning race hath brightly run. 



THE 1.AS1 BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



146 



Released from anguish by thy foes, 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
0, thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away, 
Like the wild billows as they sweep, 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future day shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By ihem unknown, by thee forgot. 



THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY 
AND CLEOPATRA. 

l" Antony, concluding tnai ne could not die more honor- 
ibly than in battle, determined to attack Csesar at the same 
rime both by sea and land. The night preceding the execu- 
»ion of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to ren- 
der him their best services that evening, and fill the wine 
round plentifu'ly, for the day following they might belong 
to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no 
longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His 
friends were affected, and wept to liear him talk thus ; which 
when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that 
his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to 
those of an honorable death. At the dead of night, when 
universal silence reigned through the city — a silence that 
rt'as deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day — 
on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, 
And a noiss which resembled the exclamations of Baccha- 
nal-s. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through 
the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the 
enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy con- 
cluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to 
imitate, had then forsaken him." — Langhorne's Plutarch.] 

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 

O stately Alexandria ! — yet the sound 
Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swelled from thy splendid fabrics far around 
O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall. 

In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
Ajid, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 
O'er many a column, rich with precious dyes. 
That tinge the marble's vein 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance played 
O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillared 
scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art aiTayed 
In godlike beauty, awfuUy serene. 
19 



O, how unlike the troubled guests, reclin jd 

Round that luxurious board ! — in every face 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, 
Though vainly masked in smiles which are not 

mirth, 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the wots 
of earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreaths, -whose 
transient bloom 
May still survive the wearers — and the rose 
Perchance may scarce he withered, when th' 
tomb 
Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle, and may set 

In death — but fill the mantling wine cup high ! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 
Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possessed 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged foi 
rest. 

Its joys ! O, mark yon proud Triumvir's mien. 

And read their annals on that brow of care ! 
'Midst pleasure's lotus bowers his steps have 
been ; 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by ; 
There is delusion in its meteor fire. 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow, 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of 
deeper woe. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

O lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow. 
To that ascendant and undying name. 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now 
Thy glory is departed, but hath left 

A lingering light around thee ! in decay 
Not less than kingly — though of all bereft, 

Thou seem' St as empire had not passed away 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate 
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate 

But thou, enchantress queen ! whose love hatt 
made 
His desolation — thou art by his side, 
In all thy sovereignty of charms arrayed, 
To meet the storm with still unconquer-N 
pride. 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stair 
Of error be upon thee, there is power 



146 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 
O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour ; 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
I E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. 

Thine asi)ect, all impassioned, wears a light 

Inspiring and inspired — thy cheek a dye 
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feverish energy. 
F^ou.i siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

With an immortal fire — in every beam 
It darts there kindles some heroic thought, 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 
For thou with death hast communed to attain 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from 
the chain.' 

And the stern courage by such musings lent, 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes ; 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored, 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet. 
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soared 

Can deem the daystar of its glory set ; 
Scarce his charmed heart believes that power 

can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by 
thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around. 

Which mark that ruined leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom pro- 
found 
Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests ! " he 
cries ; 
*' Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies. 

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep ; 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea. 
And the red bowl again is crowned — but not 
for me. 

i et weep not thus. The struggle is not o'er, 
O vi:'.ors of Philippi I many a field 

Cie<)i)atra made a collection of poisv^nous dnigs, and be- 
ing desirous to know which was least painful i i the opera- 
tion, she tried tliem on the capital convicts. Such poisons 
as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended 
with ^'iolei.t pain and convulsions ; such as were milder 
ivere slow in their effect : slie therefore applied licrself to 
lUe examination of venomous creatures ; and at length she 
fjund that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of 
ieath, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy. — See 

VkTArCH. 



Hath jd elded palms to us : one effort more ! 

By one stern conflict must our doom be sealert 
Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world 

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though, from his eyry of dominion hurled, 

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head . 
Yet sovereign still, if banished from the sky. 
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop • - 
but die." 

The feast is o'er. 'Tis night, the dead of night — 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep ; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of 
sleep. 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom. 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled di*eams ; 

Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb : 
Dreams dark and ominous, but t?iere to cease, 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers, wake ! Hark ! heard ye not 
a sound 
Of gathering tumult ? — Near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around, 
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and 
shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria ! through thy streets thf. 
tread 
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild anvi 
dread. 
Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; 
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth. 
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not ol 
the earth. 

These are no mortal sounds — their thrilling 
strain 
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more 
high ; 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern, terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

O ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exulting move along 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals thy doom — ** De- 
spair and die ! " ^ 



2 " To-morrow in the battle think on me. 

And fall thy e dgeless sivord ; lespair and die ! " 

Richard III 



ALAIUC IN ITALY. 



115 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 

1^ After de!5cribin<,' the conquest of Greece and Italj' by the 
Sernian and Scythian hordes united under the conunaiid of 
Alaric, tlie historian of The Decline and Foil if the Roman 
Empire thus proceeds : " Whether fame, or conquest, or 
riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with 
an indefatigable ardor, which could neither be quelled by 
aJvcrsity nor satiated by success. No sooner liad he reached 
'bi' extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the 
ie;.jhb(.rng prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even 
the oo!««essK)n of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate 
wep to the important expedition which he already meditated 
tpainst the continent of Africa. The straits of Khegium 
ani*. Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrow- 
est passage, about one mile and a lialf broad ; and the fab- 
ulous monsters of the deep — the rocks of Scylla and the 
wliirlpool of Charj-bdis — could terrify none but the most 
timid and unskilful mariners : yet, as soon as the first di- 
vision of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, 
wliich sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their 
courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element ; and 
tlie whole design was defeated by the premature death of 
Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of 
his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians 
was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valor and for- 
tune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labor 
of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of 
the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Con- 
gentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid 
spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant 
bed ; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, 
and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been 
deposited was fojrever concealed by the inhuman massacre of 
t}e prisoners who had been employed to execute the work." 
- - Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.] 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast r 
The march of hosts as Alaric passed ? 
His steps have tracked that glorious clim.e, 
The birthplace of heroic time ; 
But he, in northern deserts bred, 
Spared not the living for the dead,^ 
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries 
From temple and from tomb arise. 
He passed — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains , 
And woke they not — the brave, the free, 
To guard their own ThermopylEe ^ 



1 After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though such 
fcanihers we-e put to the sword, there were as many who 
aid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking 
:-«untry Wliat reduced the best men among tliein to this 
iespai/ ^^ finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, 
»vas the well-known cruelty of Sylla : yet, partly by tiie 
intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who 
Ihrew themselves at his feet, partly by the entreaties of 
the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being 
himself satiated with blood esides, he was at last prevailed 
npon to stop his hand ; ant in compliment to the ancient 
Athenians, he said, ' he tnt<rave the many for the sake of 
he few, the living for the dead.'' " — Plutarch. 



And left they not their silent dwelling, 
"When Scythia's note of war was swelb'ng ? 
No ! where the bold Three Hundred slept, 
Sad freedom battled not — but wept ! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band ; 
Nor one high soul from slumber broke 
When Athens owned the northern yoke 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, StDrning to despair ? 
O City of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle call — 
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall ? 
Did no Camillus from the chain 
Ransom thy Capitol again ? 
O, who shall tell the days to be 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee ! 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast » 
The march of hosts as Alaric passed ? 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,' 
Burst on the Eternal City's sleep : — 
How woke the mighty ? She whose will 
So long had bid the world be still. 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 
Th' ascendant star of destiny ! 
She woke — to view" the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Poured from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gav» 
A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave. 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and tower. 
Revealed the throngs, for aid divine, 
Clinging to many a worshipped shrine : 
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword, with carnage red, 
Shone o'er the suppliant and the fl>dng. 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas, that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 
The time hath been when thy distress 
Had roused up empires for redress ! 



2 " At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silTitl; 
opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremen 
dous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred ano 
sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial 
city, which had subdued and civilized so considerable i 
portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious 'ury o. 
the tribes of Germany and Scythia." — decline and Fail of 
the Roman Empire, vol. v. p 311 



148 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Now, her long race of glory run, 
Without a combat Home is won, 
And from her plundered temples forth 
Rush the tierce children of the North, 
To share beneath more genial skies 
Each joy their own rude clime denies. 

Ye who on bright Campania's shore 
Bade your fair villas rise of yore, 
AVith all their graceful colonnades, 
And crystal baths, and myrtle shades. 
Along the blue Hesperian deep, 
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep — 
Beneath your olive and your vine 
Far other inmates now recline ; 
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed 
With rich libations duly shed,* 
O'er guests, unlike your varushed friends, 
Its bowery canopy extends. 
For them the southern heaven is glow- 
ing, 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; 
For them the marble halls unfold, 
W^hero nobler beings dwelt of old, 
Whose children for barbarian lords 
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords. 
Or wreaths of Paestan roses twine 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Yet, though luxurious they repose 
Beneath Corinthian porticoes — 
While round them into being start 
The marvels of triumphant art — 
O, not for them hath Genius given 
Vo Parian stone the fire of heaven. 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought. 
In vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise, 
And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade 
People the dark- green laurel shade. 
Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity ; 
ind rude his hand which dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 

Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 
Chieftains ! the war note's call invites ; 
And other lands must yet be won, 
And other deeds of havoc done. 

1 The plane tree was inucJi cultivated among the Romans, 
on account of its extraordinary shade ; and they used to 
nourish it with wine instead of water, helieving (as Sir VV. 
Temple ohservcs) that " this tree loved that liquor as well as 
those who used to drink it under its shade." — See the notes 
V) Mfii moth's Pliny. 



Warriors ! your flowery bonlage brc *k ; 
Sons of the stormy North, awake ! 
The barks are launching from the steep — 
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,^ 
And Afric's burning winds afar 
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. 
Where shall his race of victory close ? 
When shall the ravaged earth repose ? 
But hark ! what wildly -mingling cries 
From Scj-thia's camp tumultuous rise ? 
Why swells dread Alaric's name on air? 
A sterner conqueror hath been there ! 
A conqueror — yet his paths are peace, 
He comes to bring the world's release ; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath. 
The avenger, the deliverer — Death I 

Is then that daring spirit fled ? 
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? 
Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength 
And he and earth are calm at length. 
The land where heaven unclouded shines, 
Where sleep the sunbeams on the %'ines ; 
The land by conquest made his own, 
Can yield him now — a grave alone. 
But his — her lord from Alp to sea — 
No common sepulchre shall be ! 
O, make his tomb where mortal eye 
Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! 
Where mortal foot may never tread 
Above a victor monarch's bed. 
Let not his royal dust be hid 
'Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; 
Nor bid the gathered mound arise, 
To bear his memory to the skies. 
Years roll away — oblivion claims 
Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 
And hands profane disturb the clay 
That once was fired with glory's ray ; 
And Avarice, from their secret gloom. 
Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 
But thou, O leader of the free ! 
That general doom awaits not thee : 
Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 
Shalt rest in regal solitude. 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 
The Awakener's final trumpet sound. 
I'urn ye the waters from their course. 
Bid Nature yield to human force, 
And hollow in the torrent's bed 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
The work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obeyed his lord's command. 

a Sicily was anciently considered as the ftivored rndr«e 
liar dominion of Ceres. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



Lis 



Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the jiast, 
The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plundered Rome ; 
And when the midnight stars are beaming, 
And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, 
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The '^hastcner of the Nations there ; 
To rest at length from victory's toil, 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil ! 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the martyred captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood, 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath passed on since then — and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept ; 
Temples of gods and domes of kings 
Are mouldering with forgotten things , 
Yet not shall ages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest : 
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, 
The guardian of his dust forever. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 

[ ■' This governor, who had braved death when it was at a 
llsiance, and protested that the sun should never see him 
lurvjve Carthage — this fierce Asdrubal was so mean spirited 
>s to come alone, and privately throw himself at the con- 
queror's feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival 
humbled, granted Ills life, and kept him to grace his tri- 
umph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner under- 
stood that their commander had abandoned th^ place, than 
they threw open the gates, and put tlie proconsul in posses- 
sion of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend 
with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to 
despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a 
second citadel within the first : there the proconsul attacked 
them ; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no 
way to escape, set fire tt) the temple. As the flames spread, 
Ihey retreated from one part to another, till they got to the 
roof of the building : there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her 
best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of 
trl-n:^ph ; and after having uttered the most bitter impreca- 
tions against her husband, whom she saw standing below 
with Eniilianus, ' Base coward ! ' said she, ' the mean 
things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; 
thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.' 
Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them 
Doth, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw 
them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after 
fliem mto the flames." Ancient. Univn-sal History.] 

The sun sets brightly — but a ruddier glow 

3'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw. : with ivy. 



Her walls have sunk, and pj'ramids of lire 
In lund splendor from her domes aspiie ; 
Swayed by the wind, they wave — while glarei 

the sky 
As when the desert's red simoom is nigh ; 
The sculptured altar and the pillared hall 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they ftJl ; 
Far o'er the seas the light of ruin stream* — 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimsoned by its bean. 3 
While captive thousands, bound in Rouidii 

chains, 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes : 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around. 
Swells from the victors' tents with ivy crowned.' 
— But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest 

height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All regal in magnificent attire. 
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire ? 
She might be deemed a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power ; 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. 
The flames are gathering round — intensel;^ 

bright. 
Full on her features glares their meteor light ; 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there, 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair . 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate. 
Mightier than death, untamable by fate. 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flushed is her cheek, inspired her haughty 

mien — 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene 
Are those her infants, that with suppliat>t crj' 
Cling round her shrinking as the flame drawii 

nigh, 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeou-? vest, 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast ? 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdala, 
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign ^ 

Fixed is her eye on Asdrubal, wo standi 
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him who left her to that burning tomb, 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; 
Who, when his country perished, fled thcstij**. 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor ! live ! " she cries, *• since dear to 

thee, 
E'en in thv fetters, can existence be ' 

1 It was a Romar custouj to a'.'orn the tents of vicU n 



.ul 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Sc orned and dishonored live ! — with blasted 

name, 
Tlie Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
slave in spirit ! bitter be thy chain 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes of thy children rise 
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes ; 
Still may their voices on the haunted air 
In fearful whispers tell thee to desjjair, 
rill vain remorse thy withered heart consume, 
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! 
E'en now my sons shall die — and thou, their 

sire, 
Ii;. bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not : — 'Twas thine 

to fly — 
'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their fate — the arms that cannot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave." 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, 
Swift from her children's hearts the lifeblood 

streams ; 
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast 
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high. 
Then deep 'midst rolhng flames is lost to mor- 
tal eye. 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 

rFrom Maccabees, book ii., chapter 3, verse 2]. " Then it 
would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the mul- 
utude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in 
inch an agony. — 22. They then called upon t^« Almighty 
Lord to keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for 
those that had committed them — 23. Nevertheless Helio- 
dorus executed that which was decreed. — 24. Now as he 
was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, 
the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a 
great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with 
him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and 
vcre sore afraid. — 25. For there appeared unto them a horse 
»vith a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a verj' fair 
covering ; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with 
his fore feet, and it seemed that he tliat sat upon the horse 
had complete harness of gold. — 2(i. .Moreover, two other 
/oung men ai)peared before him, notable in strength, excel- 
lent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on 
either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him 
!•»•• ' sore stripes. — 27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to 
the ground, and was compassed with great darkness ; but 
.hey that were with him took him up, and put him into a 
littei —28. Tlius him that lately ratne with great train, and 
with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, 
being unable to help himself with his weapons, and mani- 
festly they acknowledged the p;ivver of God. — 29. For he 
by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless with- 
•ut all hope of life."] 



A SOUND of woe in Sa'.otr^ : mournful cries 
Rose from her dwellings — youthiul chc-eia 
were pale. 

Tears flowing fast from dim ard aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 

Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, 

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 
The regal splendor of their fair array. 

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pri'Je» 
And thronged the streets in hurrying) wUd 
dismay ; 

While knelt thy priests before His a^-fid siunno 

Who made of old renown and empire tnine. 

But on the spoiler moves ! In^ temple's gate, 
The bright, the beautiful, hxs guards unfold; 

And all the scene reve&k itj, &oiemn state. 
Its courts and pillaxS, rlih with sculptured 
gold ; 

And man with eye unhoLuwed views th' abode, 

The severed spot, the dweding-place of God. 

Where art thou, Mighty Presence ! that of yori 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veiled in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest ? 

Thou ! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne. 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God ! that through the Assyrian host. 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight 
hour. 

To tame the proud, to hush the invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, 

Till burst the dayspring on the silent scene, 

And death alone revealed where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener ! in thy might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, 

W^here oft from heaven the full Shechinah'^ '-ig-^* 
Hath streamed the house of holiness to fill ? 

O, yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal One ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismayed 
Hastes on, the sacred chamoers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane aie laid 
The orphan's portion and the widow's store: 

What recks his heart though age unsuccored die 

And want consume the cheek of infancy r 

Away, intruders ! — hark ! a mightv' sound ! 
Behold, a burst of light ! — away, nway ! 



NIGHT SCENE IN GENOA. 



1& 



A. fearful glory fills the temple round, 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 
And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 
His path a whirl-wind and his breath a flame ! 

H-is neck is clothed with thunder,^ and his mane 
Seem- wa^-lng fire — the kindling of his eye 

Is as a ixieteor — ardent with disdain 
His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty ! 

[nstmct with light he seems, and formed to bear 

Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, 

Throned on that burning charger ? Bright his 
form, 
Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm ! 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 
Shrinks from the splendor of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand. 
All armed, and kingly in commanding grace — 

0, more than kingly — godlike ! — sternly grand, 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given. 

Magnificent m all the wrath of Heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart — each knee is 
bowed 
In trembling awe ; but, as to fields of fight, 
Th' unearthly war steed, rushing through the 
crowd, 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might ; 
And the stern angels of that dread abode 
Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness — thick darkness ! — low on earth he 
lies, 

Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale — 
Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 

Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil ; 
And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train, 
[s borne from that inviolable fane. 

rhe light returns — the -\5 arriors of the sky 
Have passed, with all Lheir dreadful pomp, 
away ; 
rhen wakes the timbrel, swells the song on 
high 
Triumphant as in Judah's elder day ; 
Rejoice, city of the sacred hill ! 
Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee still. 



J " Hast thou given the horse strength ? Hast thou clothed 
«»i8 neck with thunder ?" — Job, chap, xxxix. v. 19, 



NIGHT SCENE IN GENOA 

FROM SISMONDl's " REPU15LIQUES ITALIENXE8.' 

[" En meme temps que les Genois poursuivoient ave* 
ardeur la guerre centre Pise, ils etoient dechires eux-inemes 
par >Hie discorde civile. Les consuls de I'annee lItJ9, poui 
retablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions soufd« 
ii. leur voix et plus puissantes qu'eux, furent obliges d'ourdi: 
en quelque sorte une conspiration. lis commencirent pa? 
s'assurer secretement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs 
descitoyens, qui cependant etoient entraines dans les emeu- 
tes par leur parente avec les chefs de faction ; puis, se con- 
certant avec le venerable vicill.'rd, Ungues, leur archeveque, 
ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du solcil, appeler au son 
des cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoicnt que 
la surprise et I'alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au 
milieu de I'obscurite de la nuit, rendroit I'assemblee et plu3 
complete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au 
parlement general, virent, au milieu de la place publiqiie, le 
vieil archeveque, entoure de son clerge en habit de cdr6- 
monies, et portant des torches allumees ; tandis que le.» 
reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes 
etoient exposees devant lui, et que les citoyens les jihu 
respectables portoient a leurs mains des croix suppliantcs. 
Des que I'assemblee fut formee, le vieillard se leva, et desa 
voix cassee il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieii de 
paix, au nom du salut de leurs ames, au nom de leur patrie 
et de la liberte dont leurs discordes entralneroicnt la ruine, 
de jurer sur I'evangile I'oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix i 
venir. 

" Les herauts, des qu'il eut flni de parler, s'avanrerent 
aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de I'une des factions 
que etoit present i I'assemblee, et, secondespar les acclaina 
tions de tout le peuple, et par les prieres de ses parens eux 
memes, ils le somm^rent de se con former au voeu des consuls 
et de la nation. 

" Roland, k leur approche, dechira ses habits, et, s'asseyant 
par terra en versant des larmes, il appela i haute voix les 
morts qu'il avoit jure de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient 
pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne 
pouvoit le determiner k s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, 
I'archeveque et le clerge, s'approcherent de lui, et, renouve- 
lant leurs prieres, ils I'entrainerent enfin, et lui tirent jurei 
sur I'evangile I'oubli de ses inimities passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo 
de Volta, n'eioicnt pas prescns k I'assemblee, mais le peuple 
et le clerge se port^rent en foule k leurs maisons; ils les 
trouverent dej^ ebranles par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprcndre 
et, profitant de leur emotion, ils leur firent jurer une recon 
ciliation sincere, et donncr le baiser de paix aux chefs d« 
la faction opposee. Alors les cloches de la villa sonn^renl 
en temoignage d'all^grcsse, et I'archeveque de retour su: lu 
place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, en 
honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauv6 leur patrie." - 
Histoire dis Ripubliqucs Ituliennes, vol. ii. pp. 149, 150.] 

In Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last warm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear, 
"Was heard, announcing danger near : 
Though deadliest foes were there, whos* 

hate 
But slumbered tiU its hour nf fate. 



02 TALES AND HISTORIC SOEXES. 


Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, 


He speaks — and from the throngs aroiu»d 


Sunk the wide city to repose. 


Is heard not e'en a whispered sound ; 




Awe-struck each heart, and fixed eatu 


But when deep midnight reigned around, 


glance. 


All sudden woke the alarm bell's sound, 


They stand as in a speli-bound trance ; 


Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 


He speaks — 0, w^ho can hear nor own 


Bore its diead summons o'er the seas. 


The might of each prevailing tone ? 


Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 




Thy sons, the free, the fearless hearted ; 


" Chieftains and warriors ! ye, so long 


Then mingled with th' awakening peal 


Aroused to strife by mutual wrong. 


Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 


Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate 


Arm, warriors ! arm ! for danger calls ; 


Hath made your country desolate ; 


Arise to guard your native walls ! 


Now by the love ye bear her name. 


With breathless haste the gathering throng 


By that pure spark of holy flame 


Hurry the echoing streets along ; 


On freedom's altar brightly burning, 


Through darkness rushing to the scene 


But, once extinguished, ne'er returning ; 


Where their bold councils still convene. 


By all your hopes of bliss to come 




When burst the bondage of the tomb ; 


But there a blaze of torches bright 


By Him, the God who bade us live 


Pours its red radiance on the night, 


To aid each other, and forgive 


O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, 


I call upon ye to resign 


With every fitful night wind swaying : 


Your discords at your country's shrine 


Now floating o'er each tall arcade. 


Each ancient feud in peace atone, 


Around the pillared scene displayed. 


Wield your keen swords for her alone, 


In light relieved by depth of shade : 


And swear upon the cross, to cast 


And now, with ruddy meteor glare, 


Oblivion's mantle o'er the past ! " 


Full streaming on the silvery hair 




And the bright cross of him who stands 


No voice replies. The holy bands 


Rearing that sign with suppliant hands. 


Advance to where yon chieftain stand*., 


Girt with his consecrated train, 


With folded arms, and brow of gloom 


The hallowed servants of the fane. 


O'ershadowed by his floating plume. 


Of life's past woes the fading trace 


To him they lift the cross — in vain : 


Hath given that aged patriarch's face 


He turns — 0, say not with disdain. 


Expression holy, deep, resigned, ^ 


But with a mien of haughty grief, 


The calm sublimity of mind. 


That seeks not e'en from Heaven relief. 


Years o'er his snowy head have passed, 


He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 


And left him of his race the last. 


Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks : — 


Alone on earth — yet still his mien 


«' Father ! not thus the wounds may close 


Is bright with majesty serene ; 


Inflicted by eternal foes. 


And those high hopes, whose guiding star 


Deem'st thou t/iy mandate can efface 


Shines from th' eternal worlds afar. 


The dread volcano's burning trace ? 


Have with that light illumed his eye 


Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 


Whose fount is immortality, 


Be smiling as it once hath been ? 


And o'er his features poured a ray 


No ! for the deeds the sword hath done 


Of glory, not to pass away. 


Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 


He seems a being who hath known 


The words by hatred spoke may not 


Communion with his God alone, 


Be as a summer breeze forgot ! 


On earth by nought but pity's tie 


'Tis vain — we deem the war feud's rage 


Detained a moment from on high ! 


A portion of our heritage. 


One to sublimer worlds allied. 


Leaders, now slumbering with their faiui 


One from all passion purified. 


Bequeathed us that undying flame ; 


E'en now half mingled with the sky, 


Hearts that have long been still and colJ 


And all prepared — 0, not to die — 


Yet rule us from their silent moiild ; 


But, like the prophet, to aspire, 


And voices, heard on earth no more. 


n heaven's triumphal car of fire. 


Speak, to our spirits as of yorn 



THE TUOUIiADOUR AND RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 



164 



Talk net of mercy ! — blood alone 
The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 
Nought else can pay that mighty debt, 
The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses. From the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now ; 
His reverend form, his aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command ; 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Filled with prophetic majesty. 

*' The dead ! — and deem'st thou thet/ retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain r 
Of guilt incurred in days gone by, 
Aught but the fearful penalty ? 
And say' St thou, mortal ! blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone ? 
There hath been blood — by Him 'twas shed 
To expiate every crime who bled ; 
The absolving God, who died to save, 
And rose in victory from the grave ! 
And by that stainless offering given 
Alike for all on earth to heaven ; 
By that innvitable hour 

When death shall vanquish pride and power. 
And each departing passion's force 
Concentrate all in late remorse ; 
And by the day when doom shall be 
Paftaed on earth's millions, and en thee — 
Tho doom that shall not be repealed. 
Once uttered, and forever sealed — 
I summon thee, O child of clay ! 
To cast thy darker thoughts away, 
And meet thy foes in peace and love, 
As thou wouldst join the blest above." 

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing. 
O, not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise ! 
He yields : devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence. 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows. 
And that best incense to the skies, 
Each evil passion's sacrifice. 

Tcei t5Ms from warriors' eyes were flow- 
ing, 
High hearts with soft emotions glowing ; 
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, 
And ardent throngs in tranf>port meeting ; 
And eager footsteps forward pressing, 
"^nd accents loud in joyous hi'^^^i^i , 
20 



And when their first Avild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo '* Peace ! " 

Twilight's dim mist hath rolled away. 
And the rich orient burns with day ; 
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth, 
Rises the choral hymn of earth — 
Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling, 
Of peace and holy rapture telling. 

Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep ; 
The seaman hears them on the deep — 
So mellowed by the gale, they seem 
As the wild music of a dream. 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone ; 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial joy, to hear. 



THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD 
CCEUR DE LION. 

[" Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when 
thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) " if we beheve 
the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance 
of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive 
enemies ; and both might have remained unknown but foi 
the grateful attachment of a Provencal bard, or minstrel 
named Blondel, who had shared that prince's friendship anc 
tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European 
continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel 
accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, 
where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded 
with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse thai 
this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired 
to the place ; but the gates of the castle were shut against 
him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name 
or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this ex- 
tremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making 
the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some 
verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself 
partly by Richard ; and to his unspeakable joy, on makin| 
a pause, he heard it reechoed and continued by the roya. 
captive. — (^Hist. Troubadours.) To this discovery the JCng 
lish monarch is said to have eventually owed his reloaso.' 
— See Russell's Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 

The Troubadour o'er many a plain 

Hath roamed unwearied, but in vain. 

O'er many a rugged mountain scene 

And forest wild his track hath been : 

Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 

He hath sung the songs of chivahy ; 

His voice hath swelled on the Alpine breeze, 

And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 

From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, 

He hath sought his prince, the love.l, the brovs 

And yet, if still on earth thou art 

Monarch of the lion heart 1 



154 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The faithful spirit, which distress^ 
But heightens to devotedness, 
By toil and trial vanquished not, 
>>hall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 

He hath reached a mountain hung with vine, 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine : 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown -ji unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state — 
No heiraet hangs o'er the massy gate ' 
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, 
A.t the chieftain's board a welcome guest ; 
Vainly rich evening's parting smile 
JVould chase the gloom of the haughty pile, 
rhat 'midst bright sunshine lowers on high. 
Like a thunder cloud in a summer sky. 

Not those the halls where a child of song 
1 while may speed the hours along ; 
Their echoes should repeat alone 
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, 
Or the wild huntsman's bugle blast, 
When his phantom train are hurrying past.* 
The Aveary minstrel paused — his eye 
Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 
Within the length' ning shadow, cast 
By the fortress towers and ramparts vast. 
Lingering he gazed. The rocks around 
Sublime in savage grandeur frowned ; 
Proud guardians of the regal flood, 
In giant strength the mountains stood — 
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven. 
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. 
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 
But the Rhine all shadowy rolled below. 
In purple tints the vineyards smiled, 
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; 
Nor pastoral pipe nor convent's bell 
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell ; 



1 It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on 
a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and 
partake of hospitality. So in tlie romance of" Perceforest," 
•' ila fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un lieaulme, 
»n eigne que tous les gcntils hommes et gentilles femmesen- 
arassent hardiinent en lour hostel comme en leur propre." 

' Poj^ular tradition ha? made several mountains in Ger- 
niat; the haunt of the wilu ^ai^e.r, or supernatural hunts- 
man. The superstitious tales relating to the Unterlmrg are 
recorded in Eustace's Classical Tour ; and it is still believed 
in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of 
Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the 
approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament 
to the opposite castle of Schncllorts. — See the " Manuel 
pour Its Voyagiurs sur le Rhin," and "Autumn on the 
kJunt." 



But all was lonely, silent, rude, 
A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark ! that solemn stillness breaking, 
The troubadour's wild song is waking. 
Full oft that song in days gone by 
Hath cheered the sons of chivalry. 
It hath swelled o'er Judah's mountains lone. 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learned its tone ; 
On the Great Plain' its notes have rung, 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among ; 
'Twas loved by the Lion Heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 



THE TROUBADOUR S SONG. 

*♦ Thine hour is come, and the stake is set, 
The Soldan cried to the captive knight, 

♦* And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are ine» 
To gaze on the fearful sighi. 

'< But be our faith by thy lips professed, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine. 
Cast down the red cross that marks thy vest, 

And life shall yet be thine." 

*' I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood, 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and 
flood, 

And think'st thou I fear to die ? 

*' I have stood where thousands, by Salem i 
towers. 

Have fallen for the Name Divine ; 
And the faith that cheered their closing licor» 

Shall be the light of mine." 

«* Thus wilt thou die in the pride of hta'th. 
And the glow of youth's fresh tlr^om. ? 



3 The Plain of Esdraelon, called by way r< eininetce th. 
" Great Plain , " in Scripture, and cisuw/ip/e, the " field i4 
Megiddo," the •' GaiiK-ean Plain." Ih'.s plain, the inoA 
fertile part of all the land of Caraan hus been the sc>>ne of 
many a memorable contest in th^ f /si nges of Jewish his- 
torj', as well as during the Ror.ia<i empire, the Crusades, 
and even in later times. It hj.s jcon a chosen place for en 
campment in every contest cvrriod on in this country, fron 
the days of Nabuchodoi'os:<r, King of the Assyrians, inti 
the disastrous march of Buctirparte from Egj-pt into Syrir. 
Warriors out of " everj nation which is under heaven ' 
have pitched their tentj upon the Plain of E<dra«lon, ant 
have beheld the vriicut banners of their nations wet wit! 
the dews of IKfnh^ a id Thabor. — Dr. darkens Trmetlt. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 



Thou art offered life, and pomp, and wealth, 
Or torture and the tomb." 

•I have been where the crown of thorns was 
twined 

For a dj^ng Savior's brow ; 
He spurned the treasures that lure mankind. 

And I reject them now ! " 

* Art thou the son of a noble line 
•In a land that is fair and blest ? 

And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine 
Again on its shores to rest ? 

'' Thine own is the choice to huil once more 

The soil of thy father's birth, 
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er, 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

* O, fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 
In the country of my love ; 

But yet, though cloudless my native skies. 
There's a brighter clime above ! " 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again. 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. 

•' Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Voung Christian ! leff to deplore thy fall, 

With sorrow deep and vain ? " 

•'There are hearts that still, through all the 
past. 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade ray home farewell. 

'♦ Better they Avept o'er the warrior's bier 

Thau th apostate's hving stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved when here 

Shall meet to love again." 

'Tis he ! thy prince — long sought, long lost, 
The leader of the red- cross host ! 
Tis he ! — to none thy joy betray, 
Youi a; Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave ; 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil 
To wm their Lion from the toil. 
And free the wassail cup shall flow, 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; 

1 " This precio"* -s>..ie set in the sea." — Richard 11. 



The festal board shall be richly crowned, 
While knights and chieftains revel round, 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, 
When merry England hails her king. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 

[" La defaite de Conradiii ne devoit mettre une terine ni i 
ses malheurs, ni anx vengeances du roi, (Charles d'Anjou.} 
L'amour du penple pour I'heritier legitime du trone avoil 
eclate d'une maniere effrayante ; il pouvoit causer de nou- 
velles revolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie ; et Charles, 
revetant sa defiance ct sa cruaute des formes de la justice, 
resolut de faire perir sur rechafaud le dernier rejeton de la 
Maison de Souabe, I'unique esperance de son pnrti. Un 
seul juge Proven(jal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiena 
n'ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, 
d'autres se renfermerent dans un timide et coupable silence j 
et Charles, sur I'autorite de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par 
Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de 
mort contre Conradin et tons ses compagnons. Cette sen 
tence fut communiquee 4 Conradin, comme il jouoit aux 
echecs ; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se preparer i 
son execution, et le 2G d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous 
ses amis, sur la Plac^ du Marche de Naples, le long du 
rivage de la mer. Charles etoit present, avec tuute sa cour, 
et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi 
condamne. Conradin etoit entre les mains des bourreaux ; 
il detacha lui-meme son manteau, et s'etant mis i genoux 
pour prier, il se releva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, ma mere, quelle 
profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on va te porter 
de moi ! ' Puis il touma les yeux sur la foule qui I'entouroit ; 
il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors, 
detachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage 
d'un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. 
Apres lui, sur le meme echafaud, Charles fit tranchen la 
tSte au Due d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et liarto- 
lommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Doiio 
ratico de Pise. Par un rafinement de cruaute, Charles voulut 
que le premier, fils du second, precedSLt son pere, et moiiriil 
entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apr^s ses ordres, furent 
exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes sans pompe sur le rivage 
de la mer. Charles IL cependant fit dans la suite batir su! 
le meme lieu une eglise de Carmelites, comme pourappaisei 
ces ombres irritees."— Sismondi's RcpubUques Itaiimnu ] 

No cloud to dim the splendor of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic sliore 
Vrith every tint that charmed the great of yore ->- 
Th' imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en ocean's realm invade 
That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires passed away. 

The beam of heaven expands — its kindJinj 
smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, 



156 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Whose image floats, in softer coloring dressed, 
With all its rocks and vines, on ocean's breast. 
Alisenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray. 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still, as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 
With all Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Vigil's tomb. 
Canr:pania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Tlieir gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies. 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak. 
Furrowed and dark with many a lava streak. 

ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Rich with all nature's and all fiction's hues, 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet erred to paint Elysium there ? 

Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps those siren-haunted seas beside ; 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear. 
And speUs more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scattered, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,' 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around. 
Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground ; 
His lays are murmured in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange groves : 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and 

sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witnessed many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath 

borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return.^ 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft aff"ection's funeral wail. 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre.^ 

1 TLe urn supposed to have contained tlie ashes of Virgil 
ixis long since been lost. 

2 Many Homans of exalted rank were formerly banished 
to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the 
roast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined 
many years in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter 
Agrippina, the widow of Gerinanlcus, afterwards died in 
exile on the same desolate s()()t 

8 " Qiielques souvenirs du cceur, quelques noms de femmos, 
r^ciament aussi vos pleurs. C'est A Misene, dans le lieu 
«ieme ou nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompee Cornelie 
vonserva jusqu'i la mortson noble deuil. Agrippinc pleura 



And there, of old, the dread mysteiious moan 
Swelled from strange voices of no mortal tone 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard at midnight o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.* 

Passed are those ages — yet another crime, 
Another woe, must stain the Elysian cUme. 
There stands a scaff'old on the sunny shore — 
It must be crimsoned ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in re<jal pomp arrayed, — 
A scene of death from thence must be surveyed 
Marked ye the rushing throngs ? — each mien 

is pale, 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale : 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppressed ; 
The burning tear a while must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provenqals, and with 
mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,^ 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance. 
Behold the conqueror ! Vainly in his face 
Of gentler feeling hope \^ould seek a trace ; 
Cold, proud, severe, tlie spirit which hath lem 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament : 
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there. 
May read at once her sentence — to despair ! 



long-temps Germanicus sur ces boias : un jour, le mfemo 
assassin qui lui ravit son epoux la trouva digne de le suivre. 
L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieux de Brutus et de 
Porcie." — Madame de Stael, Corinne. 

4 The sight of tliat coast, and those shores where the crimt 
had been perpetrated, filled Nero with contiimal horrcrj 
besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid 
shrieks and cries from Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful 
sound of trumpets from the neighboring cliffs and hilis 
Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes^ withire?* 
to Naples — See Ancient Universal History. 

5 " Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, " fuisage et pradfni 
dans les conseils, i)reux dans Ics amies, apre et forte redout* 
de tons les rois du inonde, magnanime et de hautes pensees 
qui I'egaloient aux plus grandes enterprises ; inebranlo-Me 
dans I'adversite, ferine et fidele dans toutcs ses promesses, 
parlant pen et agissant beaucoup, ni riant prcsgue jamais, 
decent cojume un religieux, z616 cathohque, Slpre k rendre 
justice, feroce dans ses regards. Sa taille etoit grande et 
nervcuse, sa couleur olivitre, son nez fort grand. II parois- 
soit plus faitqu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste royale 
II ne durmoit presque point Jamais il ne prit de plaisir auj 
mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour." — Sumo^ioi, 
R^pubUques Raliennes, vol. iii. 



THE DEATH OF COXRADIN, 



161 



But thou, fair boy, the beautiful, the brave. 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath gro'^^Tl too full for utteranoo Can it be ! 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee f 
Young, royal Conradin ! who shouldst have 

known 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
O, who can view thee in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, arrayed so richly for the tomb. 
Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led. 
Crowned with all flowers that heaven on earth 

can shed. 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied ? 
There is dead silence on the breathless throng, 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves ; the only sound, 
To break that calm so fearfully profound, 
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave. 
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
[s passing to his fate : the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, 

on him. 
He mounts the scaffold - 'l»th his footstep fail ? 
Doth his lip quiver ^ doth his cheek turn 

15 ale ? 
0, it may be forgiven him if a thought 
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, 
To all the hopes that promised glory's meed. 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If, in his life's young day spring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, 
One human fear convulse his parting breath, 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow : that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man ; his heart shall 

own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour ? 
How the still voice, which answers every moan. 
May speak of hope — when hope on earth is 
gone? 



That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hati 

given 
One glance of parting love to earth and i-cavc^ 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky. 
Life all around him glows — and he must die ? 
Yet 'midst his people, undismayed, he throwi 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance that, like their o^\^^ volcano's fire. 
May sleep suppressed a while — but not expire 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 
*' Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair. 
When thy lost child is gone ? " — that thought 

can thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet from the blood which flows that shore tc 

stain, 
A voice shall cry to Heaven — and not in vain 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou — but that dread voice shall b*" 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed, the throngs de- 
part, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies 
O vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave ; 
Marked by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
TJnhonored, unadorned — but unforgot ; 
Eor thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall 

live, 
Now mutely suffering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away 
A bark hath anchored in the unruffled bay : 
Thence on the beach descends a female form,* 
Her mien with hope and tearful transpcrt warm 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, 
And her soft eyes a chastened heart bespeak, 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sank not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 



1 " 1 he Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody 
catastroi.iie of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of 
Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed 
that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their piematura 
fate, and at the deep distress o*" Conradin's mother, who 
landing on the beach with her son's ransom, found only i 
lifeless trunk to redeem fr'<m the fangs of his barbaroiscon 
queror." - Swinburne'? Travels in the Two SkUiejt. 



»s 



THE SUEPTIU. 



'ho 



While one bright hope remained 

shall tell 
I'h' uncrowned, the widowed, how her loved 

one fell ? 
1 > clasp her child, to ransom and to save, 
riie mother came — and she hath ibund his 

grave ! 
And by that grave, transfixed in speechless grief, 
Whose deathlike trance denies a tear's relief, 
A while she kneels ; till roused at length to know, 
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe. 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard — " My Conradin ! my 

child ! " 

EXTRACTS FROAI CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. 

Quarterly Review. — " 'Tales and Historic Scenes' is a 
collection, as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps 
it was not on consideration that Mrs. Hemans passed from 
a poem of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of 
rales ; but if we were to prescribe to a young poet his course 
of practice, this would certainly be our advice. The lux- 
uriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the 
quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing judg- 
ments, — in the one richness, in the other antithesis and 
efiect, are too often more sought after than truth : the poem 
is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But 
in narration more care must be taken : if the tale be fic- 
titious, the conception and sustainment of the characters, 
the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by 
description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful 
studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from 
history, a more delicate task is added to those just men- 
tioned, in determining how far it may be necessary, or safe, 
to interweave the ornaments of firtion with the groundwork 
of truth, and in skilfully performing that diflicult task. In 
both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained 
effort, and acquires thereby greater vigor, and a more prac- 
tical readiness in the detail of the art. 

" The f)rincipal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. 
It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and 
Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge 
of Ilamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced 
to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order 
to procure the ruin of their king, tiie murderer of his father 
Uid brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night 
Id the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival 



and hated family. Her character is very finely drav.Ti ; and 
she repels with firmness all the solicitation^, ind prayers of 
the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of 
their dialogue, — they are spirited and patJietic, but perfectlj 
free from exaggeration : — 

" ' O, wert thou still wliat once I fondly deemed ** etc 

Edinliurgh Alonthly Review. — " The more we become ac- 
quainted with Mrs, Hemans as a poet, the more W3 ai^ de- 
lighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers 
She will, she nmst, take her place among eminent poets, li 
she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie ; but, even 
compared with the living masters of the lyre, she is entitled 
to a very high distinction. .... 

" Mrs. Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a 
fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some 
very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it 
impossible that she can write by mere rule, more tlian on 
credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It 
is by inspiration — as it is poetically called — by a fine tact 
of sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she 
pours forth her enchanting song and ' builds her loftj' rhyme.' 
The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on eaci. 
element of her composition its due share of fancy and of 
feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With 
an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite 
sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations ; with a rich 
and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature : a 
sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of mag 
nanimity ; while she melts into tenderness with a grace ir 
which she has few equals. 

" It appears to us that Mrs. Hemans has yielded her owr 
to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of 
tales." 

Conslable^s Magazine. — " Tht Abencerrage is a romance 
the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romanti« 
period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit ol 
romance was most powerful, and lingered longest — in the 
kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was fir- 
established, and had the greatest continuance 

The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, 
and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate 
lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of th* 

descriptions here is exquisite Choice ia 

bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted 
to extract from The Abencerrage. 

" If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and cm 
extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxur>' of doioji 
justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so nrach privat* 
worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of thi* 
nature." 



THE SCEPTIC.^ 



" Leur raison, qo'ils prennent pour guide, ne prcsente a lour esprit que des conjectures ct dcs cmbnrras ; Ic absurdite* 
ou ils tombcnt en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenablcs que les verites dont la hauteur les ctonne ; et paur ne 
vouloir pas croire dee mystires incomprehensibles, ils suivcnt I'une apres I'autre d'inconipreheusiblcs erreura," — BossUET. 



When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, 
flas learned to dare the splendor of the sky, 

' " The p»em of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one 

« which her revered friend* took a peculiar nterest. It 

* Dt Lujimoore, Bishop of St. Asaph. 



And leave the Alps beneath him in his cours», 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source ; 

had been her original wisfi to dedicate it to him, but he 
declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advanta 
geous to her to pay this compliment to Air. Giflbrd, witk 



THE SCEPTIC. 



m^ 



Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, 
Which far below, with evanescent fire, 
Shines to delude and dazzles to expire ? 
No ! still through clouds he wins his upward 

way, 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 
— And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze 
llie dayspring from on high hath poured its 

blaze. 
Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam 
Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous 

gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith 
To the deep valley of the shades of death ? 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be 

given, 
For the high birthright of its hope in heaven r 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy, 
What yet remains ? — a dark eternity ! 

Is earth still Eden? — might a seraph guest 
Still 'midst its chosen bowers delighted rest ? 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? 
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state. 



whom she was at that tune in frequent correspondence, and 
who entered verj^ warmly into iier literary undertakings, 
discussing them with the kindness of an old friend, and de- 
liring her to command frankly whatever assistance his ad- 
pice or experience could afford. Mrs. Hemans, in the first 
instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the 
altered dedication ; but was afterwards deterred from putting 
it into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a 
nanoeuvre to propitiate the good graces of the Q_uarierhj 
Revieio ; and from the slightest approach to any such mode 
of propitiation, her sensitive nature recoiled with almost 

fastidious delicacy." Memoir, p. 31. 

" One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the 
Edinburgh Monthly Magazine ; and there is something in its 
tone po far more valuable than ordinary praise, and at the 
game time so prophetic of the happy influence her writings 
were one day to exercise, that the introduction of the con- 
cluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the readers of 
this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the 
reviewer thus proceeds : ' These extracts must, we think, 
convey to every reader a favorable impression of the talents 
of their author, and of the admirable purposes to which 
her high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we 
imagme, of some of the most popular writers of the day, that 
they are not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of 
their performances ; it is the deep, and will he the lasting 
reproach of others, that in this point of view they have 
wantonly sought and realized the most profound literary 
abasement. With the promise of talents not inferior to any, 
•nd far superior to most of them, the author before us is not 
oiiy free from every stain, hut breathes all moral beauty and 
Weliness ; and it will be a memorable coincidence if the 
<»* o| n. woinan'9 swav in literature shall bfome coeval 



And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, 
To rear his duelling on the quicksand's base ? 

Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng 
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine cup high 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
'Tis well — thine eye is yet undimmed by time, 
And thy heart bounds^ exulting in its prime ; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, 
And in the glory of thy strength rejoice ! 

But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brict 

hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from 

toil, 
Are few and distant on the desert soil ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms musi 

fan. 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling 

:Man ! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared 
Proud child of reason ! how art thou prepared • 
When years, with silent might, thy frame havo 

bowed. 
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, 

with the return of its moral purity and elevation.' From 
suffrages such as these, Mrs. Hemans derived not merely 
present gratification, but encouragement and cheer for hei 
onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the as 
surances, with which it often fell to her lot to be blessed, of 
having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her, ad 
ministered balm to the feelings of the sorrowful, or tauglii 
the desponding where to look for comfort. In a letter writ 
ten at this time to a valued friend, recently visited by one of 
the heaviest of human calamities — the loss of an exemplary 
mother — she thus describes her own appreciation of such 
heart tributes : ' It is inexpressibly gratifying to me to know 
that you should find any thing I have written at all adapted 
to your present feelings, and that The Sceptic should have 
been one of the last books upon which the eyes, now opened 
upon brighter scenes, were cast. Perhaps, when your mind 
is sufficiently composed, you will inform me which were 
the passages distinguished by the approbation of that pure 
and pious mind : they will be far more highly valued by mf 
than any thing I have ever written.' — Ibid. p. 334. 

" It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mt« 
Hannah More, in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copj 
of The Sceptic : ' I cannot refuse myself the gradfication ol 
saying, that I entertain a very high opinion of Mrs. Hemans'' 
superior genius and refined taste. I rank her, as a port, 
very high, and I have seen no work on the subject of her 
Modern Greece which evinces more just views, ar more 
delicate perceptions of the fine and the beautiful. I am glad 
she has employed her powerful pen, in this new instance 
on a subject so worthy of it; and, anticipating the futur' 
by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the peru 
sal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, liut benefit ' " 
— ibid. 



»60 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain 
With the bright images of pleasure's train ? 

i es ! as the sight of some far-distant shore, 
Wliose v-ell-known scenes his foot shall tread 

no more, 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathomed 

grave ! 
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call — 
She who, like heaven's own sunbeams, smiles for 

all? 
Will she speak comfort ? — Thou hast shorn her 

plume, 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb. 
And hushed the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For she was born bej'ond the stars to soar, 
A.nd kindling at the source of life, adore ; 
Thou couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth ; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free. 
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but 
thee. 

Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft. 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left ; 
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's 

hour, 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head. 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home 

above. 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest 
Within that hallowed shrine, a parent's breast ; 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 
On one frail idol, destined but to die ; 
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light. 
Where severed souls, made perfect, reunite ? 
Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear. 
Still let ^^ forever " vibrate on thine ear ! 
If sume bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis 

gone ! 

(jro ! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; 
And make an eye the loadstar of thy soul, 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 



Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight. 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 
There seek thy blessings, theie repose thj 

trust. 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust ! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, 
Think on that dread ^^ forever" — and desjjair ! 

And O ! no strange, unwonted storm thei« 

needs 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious 

eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky. 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, 
And the bark sink when peace and sunshini- 

sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! 
Yes ! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate. 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer air with latent power, 
He hides his venom iia the scented flower, 
He steals upon thee in tKe zephyr's breath, 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! 

Where art thou then. -who thus didst rashly 
cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, 
And vainly hope the tree of life to flnd 
Rooted in sands that flit before the "VNind ? 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, 
It -wished not in a brighter sphere to dwell, 
Become a desert note, a vale of gloom, 
O'ershadowed with the midnight of the tomb ? 
Where shalt thou turn ? It is not thine to raise 
To yon pure heaven thy calm, confiding gaze — 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast ; 
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is pressed. 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest. 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; 
Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dare the gate of life to clost. 
Or say, thtis far the stream of mercy flows ? 
That fount unsealed, whose boundless wave^ 

embrace 
Each distant isle, and visit every race, 
Pours from the throne of God its current free 
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee 



THK SCEPTIC. 



161 



O, while the doom impends, not yet decreed, 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead — 
While still, suspended by a single hair, 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the 

air, 
Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break 
The bruis6d reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! 
Patient, because Eternal, • He may hear 
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, 
And send his chastening Spirit from above. 
O'er tlve deep chaos of thy soul to move. 

But seek thou mercy through his name alone. 
To whose unequalled sorrows none was shown ; 
llirough Him, who here in mortal garb abode, 
As man to suffer, and to heal as God ; 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

Call thou on Him ! for he, in human form. 
Hath walked the waves of life, and stilled the 

storm. 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was pas':, 
O'er Salem wept," relenting to the last — 
Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch poureo. 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; 
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, 
Taught from his Cross the lesson — to forgive ! 

Call thou on Him ! His prayer e'er then arose, 
Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. 
And haste ! — ere bursts the lightning froir. on 

high. 
Fly to the City of thy Refuge, Hy ! « 
So shall th' Avenger turn his steps away, 
And sheathe his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet mu-^t long days roll on, ere peace shall 
brood, 
As the soft halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; 
Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed 
Inspiring irfiuence o'er thy fallen head. 
— He who hath pined in dungeons, 'midst the 

shad^ 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made, 
Throu gh lingering years — if called at length to be 
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free, 
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, 
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun. 

1 " He is patient because he is eternal." — St. Augus- 
tine. 

9 " Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge 
for you ; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any 
peison at unawares. — And they Ehall be unto you cities of 
•«l!ig« from the avenger." — J^umbers, chap. xxxv. 
21 



Thus, when the captive soul hatn long re- 
mained 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chained, 
If the Deliverer, in his might at last. 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away : that spark of mind 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined. 
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, 
Born to be fostered with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o'er ^liea 



On wing of flame, the purifying blast. 

And sorrow's voice, through paths before nntro('^ 

Like Sinai's trumpet, called thee to thy God 1 

But hop'st thou, in thy panoply of pride, 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride ' 
In thme own strength unaided to defy. 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? 
Torn by the vulture, fettered to the rock. 
Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? 
Alas ! the tov/er that crests the mountain's bro\* 
A fhousa:id yenrs may awe the vale below. 
Yet not the less be shattered on its height 
By one draad moment of the earthquake's migtt i 
A tho'^isand pangs thy bosom may have borne. 
In '■^dent fortitude or haughty scorn. 
Till comes the one, the master anguish, sent 
To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent 

O, what is nature's strength? The vacant 
eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply f 
The wild delirious laughter of despai*. 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer theic 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale 
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way. 
In the mid darkness of the stormy wave 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save I 
Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains 
Strewed with the wrecks of grandeur — moul- 
dering fanes. 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergroA\'n, 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own : 
Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind. 
Whose star is quenched, hathlessons for mankind 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no mor« ? 



62 



THE SCEPTIC. 



VVho pierce the deep mrsterious clouds that roll 
A.round the shattered temple of the soul, 
Curtained with midnight ? Low its columns lie, 
And dark the chambers of its imagery ; ^ 
Sunk are its idols now — and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown ! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, 
Is heard an oracle that cries — " Beware ! 
Child of the dust ! but ransomed of the skies ' 
One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies ! 
Ilaste, ere the hour of doom — draw nigh to Him 
Who dwells above, between the cherubim ! " 

Spirit dethroned ! and checked in mid career — 
Son of the morning ! exiled from thy sphere, 
Tell us thy tale ! Perchance thy race was run 
With science in the chariot of the sun ; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep. 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep. 
And search the laws that nature's springs control, 
There tracing all — save Him who guides the 
whole ! 

jcfaply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; 
"By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
From the far beacon lights of ages fled, 
The depths of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanished race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre 
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire. 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swelled on 

high, 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony ; 
While woke each passion from its cell profound. 
And nations started at th' electric sound ? 

Lord of th' ascendant ! what avails it now. 
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow ? 
What though thy name, through distant empires 

heard, 
Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle word ? 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky. 
To make the secrets of all ages thine, 
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine 
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway ? — hath thy 

mind 
Severed its lone dominions from mankind. 
For this to woo their homage ! Thou hast sought 
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, 



1 " Every man in the chambers of his imagery." — Etekiel, 
Kbap. Tiii. 



Won every wreath — but that Avhich wiU not di«^ 
Nor aught neglected — save eternity ! 

And did all fail thee in the hour of wtath, 
When burst th' o'erwhelming vials on thy oath 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then 
O spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men. 
With an immortal's courage, to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly pain ? 

— One, one there was, all-powerful to hate saxe^ 
When the loud fury of the billow raveii ; 

But him thou knew'st not — and the lighi lie IciA 
Hath vanished from its ruined tenement. 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingeriiig yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget ! 

— Lift the dread veil no further ! Hide, 0, hiu^ 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide ! 

The dagger, grasped in death — the brow, ti / 

eye, 
Lifeless, yet stamped with rage and agony ; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mien, who died — '• and made j 

sign ! " 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fevered b> ^a 
Too deep that image of despair retain. 
Angels of slumber ! o'er the midnight hour 
Let not such visions claim unhalloAved powo*. 
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forget th' Atonor's 

love ! 

Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! — Thou 

whose ways. 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, 
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand. 
Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand. 
And countless ages, trampling into clay 
Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ; 
Father of worlds unknown, unnumbered!- — 

Thou, 
With whom all time is one eternal iiow, 
Who know'st no past nor future — Thou whosi 

breath 
Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death • 
Look on us ! guide us ! — wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ? 
A thousand rocks, deep hid, elude our sight, 
A star may set — and we are lost in night ; 
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 
A treacherous song allure us — and we sink ! 

O, by His love, w'ho, veiling Godhead's lighl 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And heaven and earth disdained not to ally 
By that dread union — Man with Deity ; 



THE SCEF-liv.. 



16. 



tminoitfti lears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish ! Let Thy word control 
The earthquakes of that un» rerse — the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passKn ; speak once more 
The mighty mandate, o;uc>^'' of every shore, 
*' Here shall thy waves 1^ <'tayed ; " in grief, in 

pain. 
The fearful poise of T<^a<-^r\'& sphere maintain, 
rhou, by whom sur^ are balanced ! thus secure 
In Thee shall faith <ird fortitude endure ; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 
A.nd by affliction guided to Thy shrine, 
fhe first, last thought of suffering hearts be 

Thine. 

And O, be near when, clothed with conquer- 
ing power, 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour : 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss. 
Awe- struck alike the timid and the brave, 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave. 
Must drink the cup of trembling ^ — when we see 
Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, 
Forsake us not ! If still, when life was young. 
Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung. 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, 
Father, forsake us not ! When tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge — 
When from thy justice to thy love we fly, 
On nature's conflict look with pitying eye ; 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake 

cease, 
Come in the " small still voice," and whisper — 
Peace ! * 

For O, 'tis awful ! He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repelled, 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union formed and closed in woe, 
Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 

1 " Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, 
yid wrung them out." — Isaiah, chap. li. 

2 " And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and 
strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the 
rocks before the Lord ; but the Lord was not in the wind : 
md after the wind an earthquake ; but the Lord was not in 
Ihe earthquake : and after the earthquake a fire ; but the 
Lord was not in the fire : and after the fire a still small 
•roicA " — Kin^s, hook i rhap xix 



We talk of Death as something which 'twcrt 

sweet 
In glory's arms exultingly to meet — 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene, 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, 
As, undismayed amidst the tears of all. 
He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 

— Hush, fond enthusiast ! Still, obscure, an«l 

lone, 
Yet not less terrible because unknown. 
Is the last hour of thousands : they retire 
From life's thronged path, unnoticed to expir'-. 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares, 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! 
Such is man's doom ; and, ere an hour be flown, 

— Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine 

own. 

But, as life's current in its ebb draws near 
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of 

fear, 
A thrilling thought which, haply mocked before, 
We fain would stifle — but it sleeps no more ! 
There are who fly its murmurs 'midst the thronp, 
That join the masque of revelry and song : 
Yet still Death's image, by its powder restored. 
Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board ; 
And when deep shades o'er earth and ocean 

brood. 
And the heart owns the might of solitude. 
Is its low whisper heard ! — a note profound, 
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead re- 
pose 
Of some proud city, stormed by midnight foes ! 

0, vainly Reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life had nought to claim such lingering love, 
And ask if e'er the captive, half unchained. 
Clung to the links which yet his step restrained. 
In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride. 
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, 
Call up the countless armies of the dead, 
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, 
And say — '* What w^ouldst thou ? Shall thi 

fixed decree. 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee f " 
Poor, feeble aid ! Proud Stoic ! ask not why- 
It is enough that nature shrinks to die. 
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid 
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! 
Search thy deep wisdom, solve the icarce definite' 
And mystic questions of the parting mind. 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Half checked, half uttered : tell her what shall 

burst, 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, 
When freed from mortal films — what viewless 

world 
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurled — 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried ; 
Say if at oncp, her final doom to hear, 
Before her God the trembler must appear, 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and 

earth shall flee ? 

Hast thou no answer ? Then deride no more 
The thoughts that shrink ; yet cease not to ex- 
plore 
Th' unknown, th' unseen, the future — though 

the heart, 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start ; 
Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, 
They have their source in immortality ! 
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's 

aid denies, 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise ? 
vv ojcn, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning 

pace, 
WTiere*er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, 
The mighty rider comes — O, whence shall aid 
Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismayed ? 
Whence, but from thee, ^lessiah! — thou hast 

drained 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remained ; 
To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, 
The mystic horror — all became thine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succor bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting ? 
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, 
To arm thee with invulnerable power ? 
No, Son of God ! upon thy sacred head 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, 
From man averted — and thy path on high 
Passed through the strait of fiercest agony : 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes. 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice ! 

But wak€ ! be glad, ye nations ! from the 
tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. 
Break forth in joy, ye ransomed ! saith your God ; 
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, 
Ajid hail with harps your bright and Morning 
Star. 



He rose ! the everlasting gates of day 
Keceived the King of Glory on his way ! 
The hope, the comforter of those who wept, 
And the first fruits of them in Him that slept^ 
He rose, he triumphed ! he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried. Rejoice 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend 
Where the lone sufi"ercr dies without a friend, 
He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless storey 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart. 
Called to the hope of glory, shall depart ! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left > 
But for the vision of the days to be. 
But for the Comforter despised by thee, 
Should we not wither at the Chastener':> look, 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke. 
When o'er our heads the desolating blast, 
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath passed, 
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey 
Hath called our fairest and our best away ? 
Should we not madden when our eyes behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold, 
No more responsive to our smile or sigh. 
Fixed — frozen — silent — aU mortality ? 
But for the promise, " All shall yet be well," 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel 
Beneath such clouds as darkened when the hand 
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land ; 
And thou,' just lent thy gladdened isles to bless, 
Then snatched from earth with all thy loveliness, 
With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 
O England's flower ! wert gathered to the dead i 
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart 
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart 
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled, 
Wlien thy young bosom o'er thy lifeless child 
Yearned with vain longing — still thy patient eye 
To its last light beamed holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, 
Amidst those agonies — thy first and last, 
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; 
W^hile bowed thy royal head to Him whosi 

power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, 

1 The Princess Charlone. 



THE sceptic; 



I6i 



Who from the brightest vision of a throne, 
Love, glory, empire, claimed thee for his own, 
A-nd spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, 
As blasted Israel when her ark was lost ! 

•' It is the will of God ! " — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career ; 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, 
But for that thought — " It is the will of God ! " 
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? 
O, still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race. 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, 
Hallowed by freedom and enshrined in song ! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit rlwell 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care, 
lo wake and guard tliine own high virtues there. 

For lo ! the hour when storm- presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the lan*d ^o rise. 
To set the sign of fire on every height,' 
And o'er the mountains rear with patriot might. 
Prepared, if summoned, in its cause to die. 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory ! 
By this hath England conquered. Field and flood 
Have owned her sovereignty : alone she stood. 
When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were 

thrown. 
In high and holy singleness, alone, 
But mighty in her God — and shall she now 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow ? 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn, 
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn ? 
No ! severed land, 'midst rocks and billows rude, 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude, 
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, 
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, 
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers ! 

Still where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle ! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile. 
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes 
That guard the peasant's records and remains. 
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath bell 
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell. 
And from each cottage dwelling of thy glades. 
When starlight glimmers through the deepen- 
ing shades, 
Oevotion's voice in choral hymns arise, 
^nd bear the land's warm incense to the skies. 

1 " An : set up a sijra of fire." — Jeremiah, chap. vi. 



There may the mother, as wiUi anxious joy 
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, 
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards in inspiration's days. 
When angels, whispering through the ccdsu 

shade. 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp conveyed ; 
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise, 
Tell of His name who left his throne on high. 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify. 
His love divine by keenest anguish tried, 
And fondly say «' My chUd, for thee He died ! ' 



[What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thir- 
teen years after the publication of Tlie Sceptic, and when 
the author, towards the terminntion of her earthly career, 
was residing witli her family in Dublin, a circumstance oc- 
curred by which Mr.<. Hemans was greatly affected and im- 
pressed. A stranger one day called at her house, and begged 
earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from one 
of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits 
of all but her immediate friends. The applicant was there- 
fore told that she was unable to receive him ; but he persisted 
in entreating for a few miimtes' audience, with such earnest 
importunity, that at last the point was conceded. The mo- 
ment he was admitted, the gentleman (for such his manner 
and appearance declared him to be) explained, in words and 
tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit waa 
to acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest 
satisfied without avowing — that to her he owed, in the first 
instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more 
precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading her 
poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the 
miserable delusions of infidelity, and induced to "search the 
Scriptures." Having poured furtli his thanks and benedic- 
tions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but 
interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her over 
whelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and won 
dering humility. Memoir, pp. 255, 256.] 

CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS. 

J^orth American Review. — "In 1820 Mrs. Hemans pub- 
lished The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its 
sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch. She con- 
siders the influence of unbelief on the alTections and gentlei 
part of our nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the 
misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that may b« 
found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality 
Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceplvj. s]m 
turns to the sterner tasks of life : — 

' E'en youth's brief hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their Eursling — Man.' 

But then the sceptic has no relief in memory; for memory 
recalls no joys but such as were trans'tory, and known to b» 
such ; and as for hope, — 

She, who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all, 
Will she speak comfort ?— Thou hast shorn her plomt 
That might have raised thee far above the tomY, 
And hushed the only voice whose angel fone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown 



THE SCEPTIC. 



" The poet then asks, if an infidel dare love j and, having 
lo home for his thoughts iu a better world, nurse such feel- 
mgs as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a 
parent She addresses him on the insecurity of an attach- 
ment to a vain idol, from which death may at any .time 

divide him ^forever.' For relief the infidel is 

referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites 

the fervor of devotion with poetic sensibility 

The poem proceeds to depict in a forcible manner the unfor- 
tunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of knowl- 
-dge but that which gives salvation ; and, having gained 
possession 3f the secrets of all ages, and communed with the 
majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time, neglects 
nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suflering, 
finds relief in suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal 
rest. The thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, 
and calls forth a fervent prayer for the divine presence and 
support in the hour of dissolution ; for the hour when the 
soul is brought to the mysterious verge of another life is an 
* awful one.' .... This is followed by an allusion to 
the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and 
the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind 
muses on its future condition, and asks of itself mystic 
questions that it cannot solve. But through the influence of 
religion, — 

' He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Called to the hope oi' glory, shall depart.' 

'After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriot- 
5m, in a manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, 
the poem closes with the picture of a mother teaching her 
child the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine 
example of the Savior. 

" We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for 
t illustrates the character of Mrs. Hemans's manner. We 
perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, 
sometimes r.iade more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, 
a depth of religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, 
gratifications, and sorrows of social life." — Professor 

IVORTON. 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — " We have on more than 
one occasion expressed the very high opinion which we en- 
tertain of the talents of this lady ; and it is gratifying to find 
thy she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree 
the ipplause already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibi- 
tion of her powers enhances and confirms her claims upon 
our admiration. Mrs. Hemans is indeed but in the infancy 
of her poetical career ; but it is an infancy of unrivalled 
heauty and of very high promise. Not but that she has al- 
rva.ly performed more than has often been sufficient to win 
for other candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but 
because what she has already done shrinks, when compared 
R'irh what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere 
incipient excellence — the intimation, rather than the fulfil- 
iien;, of the high destiny of her genius. 

. . . . " The verses of Mrs. Hemans appear the spon- 
;uieoU3 oflTspring of intense and noble feeling, governed by 
i c'eai understanding, aii d fashioned into elegance by an ex- 



quisite delicacy and precision of taste. With more than tbi 
force of many of her masculine competitors, she never ceasei 
to be strictly feminine in the whole current of her thought 
and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of thai 
free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness 
is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some 
of the most remarkable among the female iiter-iU of our timea 
have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the pcem 
before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have 
been very diflicult to have reconciled the treatment in tho 
hands of some female authors, to the delicacy which belonga 
to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which form 
its finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the 
exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by 
the hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, 
by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and 
by the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its 
attractions, and wrapped in darkness and defiance. But Mrs. 
Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler cause, and, 
while she has l^f' -^ the poem before us every trace of vig- 
orous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far 
transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of 
unbelief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm an<^ 
confiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility ol 
hope and of faith has in it none of the weakness with which 
it has been charged by the arrogance of impiety, but owna 
a divine and mysterious vigor residing under the very aspect 
of gentleness and devotion." 

Quarterly Review. — " Her last two publications are worta 
of a higher stamp — works, indeed, of which no living poet 
need to be ashamed^ The first of them is entitled The Seep 
tic, and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticipate, to 
advocating the cause of religion. Undoubtedly tlie poem 
must have owed its being to the circumstances of the timea 

— to a laudable indignation at the course which literature, 
in many departments, seemed lately to be taking in tliia 
country, and at the doctrines disseminated with industry, 
principally (but by no means exclusively, as has been falsely 
supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs. Hemans, however, 
does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse , 
few poems, ostensibly philosophical or didactic, have ever 
been of use, except to display the ingenuity and talent of the 
writers. People are not often taught a science or an art in 
poetry, and much less will an infidel be converted by a the-* 
ological treatise in verse. But the argument of The Sceptic 
is one of irresistible force to confirm a wavering mind ; it ia 
simply resting the truth of religion on the necessity of it — 
on the utter misery and helplessnessof man without it. Thia 
argument is in itselt available fur all the purposes of poetry 

— it appeals to the imagination and passions of man; it ia 
capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and chari- 
ties, of acting upon all our natural fears. Mrs. Hemans has 
gone through this range with great feeling and ability ,: and 
when she comes to the mind which has clothed itseh in iti 
own strength, and, relying proudly on that alone in the lion; 
of affliction, has sunk into distraction in the contest, sh« 
rises into a strain of moral poetry not often surpassed : — 

♦ O, what is nature's strength ? The vacant eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,* etc." 



sarERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



16*. 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



AN UNFINISHED POEM. 



Uetngs of bngnter worlds ! that rise at times 
As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught, 
In those brief visions of celestial climes 
Which pass lilce sunbeams o'er the realms of 

thought, 
Dwell ye around us ? — are ye hovering nigh, 
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air ? 
A.nd in deep soKtudes Avhere human eye 
Can trace no step, Immortals ! are ye there ? 
O, who can tell ? — what power, but Death alone. 
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world 

unknown ? 



But earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers 
Of Eden withered, when revealed ye shone 
In aU your brightness midst those holy bowers — 
Holy, but not unfading as your own ! 
While He, the child of that primeval soil, 
With you its paths in high communion trod. 
His glory yet undimmed by guilt or toil, 
A.nd beaming in the image of his God, 
And his pure spirit glowing from the sky. 
Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. 



Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays. 
Mingling their tones, from nature's temple rose, 
When nought but that majestic song of praise 
Broke on the sanctity of night's repose, 
IVith music since unheard : and man might trace 
By stream and vale, in deep, embowering shade, 
Devotion's first and loveliest dwelling-place, 
The footsteps of th' Omnipotent, Avho made 
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast 
3er consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He passed. 



Short were those days, and soon, sons of 

Heaven ! 
Your aspect changed for man. In that dread 

hour. 
When from his paradise the alien driven 
Beheld your forms in angry splendor tower, 
Guarding the clime where he no more might 

dwell 
With meteor swords : he saw the living flame, 



And his first cry of misery was — ** Farewell ? 
His heart's first anguish, exile : he became 
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children's lot 
Is still for happier lands to pine — and reacli 
them not. 



Where now the chosen bowers that once be- 
held 
Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep i 
From all its founts the world of waters swelled, 
And wrapped them in the mantle of the 

deep ! 
For He, to whom the elements are slaves. 
In -VNTath unchained the oceans of the cloud, 
And heaved th' abyss beneath, till waves on 

waves 
Folded creation in their mighty shroud ; 
Then left the earth, a solitude, o'erspread 
With its own awful wrecks — a desert of thf 
dead. 



But onward flowed life's busy course again, 
And rolling ages Avith them bore away — 
As to be lost amidst the boundless main, 
Rich Orient streams their golden sands convey - 
The hallowed lore of old — the guiding light 
Left by tradition to the sons of earth, 
And the blest memory of each sacred rite 
Known in the region of their father's birth, 
"When in each breeze around his fair abode 
Whispered a seraph's voice, or livbd the breath 
of God. 



Who hath not seen what time the OTO of day» 
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean's breast, 
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray, 
Catching brief splendor from the purple west i 
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth ! a while 
With borrowed hues unnumbered phantoms 

shone ; 
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, 
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own. 
Blending her rites with thine — while yet afar 
Thine eye's last radiance beamed, a slow-reced 

ing star. 



68 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATIOjn. 



Yet still one stream was pure — one severed 

ahrine 
Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands ; 
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine, 
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. 
There still the father to his child bequeathed 
The sacred torcn of never-dying flame ; 
There still Devotion's suppliant accents breathed 
The One adored and everlasting Name ; 
And angel guests would linger and repose 
Where those primeval tents amid their palm 

trees rose. 

IX. 

But far o'er earth the apostate wanderers bore 
Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade, 
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore. 
In thriUing whispers to the soul conveyed 
High inspiration : yet in every clime, 
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought 
With beings in their essence more sublime, 
T'^ ^ -^Id communion of mysterious thought j 
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, 
And hear in every wind the accents of th' Un- 
seen. 



Yes ! we have need to bid our hopes repose 
On some protecting influence : here confined, 
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes. 
Earth is too narrow for th' immortal mind. 
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day, 
As exiles panting for their native coast. 
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way. 
And shrinking from the gulf that must be 

crossed. 
Death hovers round us : in the zephyr's sigh. 
As in the storm, he comes — and lo ! Eternity ! 



As one left lonely on the desert sands 
Of burning Afric, where, without a guide, 
He gazes as the pathless waste expands — 
Around, beyond, interminably wide ; 
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, 
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky. 
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume 
The glistening Serab * which illudes his eye : 
Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, 
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread 
Unknown. 

1 Scrab, mirago. 



His thoughts explored the past — and when 

were they, 
The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone bv ? 
He turned — a boundless void before him lay, 
Wrapped in the shadows of futurity. 
How knew the child of nature that the flamo 
He felt within him, struggling to ascend. 
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame 
Doomed with the earth on which it moved to 

blend ? 
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed. 
If 'twere a Father's love or Tyrant's wTath de- 
creed ? 

XIII. 

O, marvel not if then he sought to trace 

In all sublimities of sight and sound. 

In rushing w^inds that wander through all space, 

Or 'midst deep woods, with holy gloom em- 

bro^vned, 
The oracles of fate ! or if the train 
Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep, 
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer'i 

brain. 
When mortal voices rest in stillness deep, 
Were deemed mysterious revelations, sent 
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread 

element. 



Was not wild nature, in that elder time. 
Clothed with a deeper power ? — earth's wander 

ing race. 
Exploring realms of solitude sublime, 
Not as we see, beheld her awful face ! 
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met 
Their searching eyes : unpeopled kingdoms 

lay 
In savage j)omp before them — all was yet 
Silent and vast, but not as in decay ; 
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, 
Looked o'er a thousand shores, untrodden, 

voiceless, lone. 



The forests in their dark luxuriance -wavoil, 
With all their swell of strange yEolian sound ; 
The fearful deep, sole region ne'er enslaved. 
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round. 
Then, brooding o'er the images, impressed 
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, 
And faint traditions, guarded in his b'-cast 
'Midst dim remembrances of infaiioy, 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



13^ 



Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams, 
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, 
groves, and streams. 



Then Died the victim — then in every shade 
Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine ; 
Fear bowed before the phantoms she por- 
trayed, 
A.nd Nature teemed with many a mystic sign. 
Ueteors, and storms, and thunders ! ye whose 

course 
E'en yet is awful to th' enlightened eye, 
As, wildly rushing from your secret source. 
Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on 

high, 
Then o'er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast, 
Aid the wide nations gazed, and trembled as 
ye passed. 



liut you, ye stars ! in distant glory burning. 
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky ! 
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, 
Would pierce the secrets of infinity — 
To you the heart, bereft of other light, 
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains. 
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, 
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns. 
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race 
Of some unnumbered orbs, that light the depths 
of space. 



Shine on ! and brightly plead for erring 

thought, 
Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored 
The wide creation, and beholding nought 
Like your eternal beautj then adored 
Its living splendors ; deeming them informed 
By natures tempered with a holier fire — 
Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warmed. 
Who to the source of spirit might aspire. 
And mortal prayers benignantly convey 
To SDme presiding Power, more awful far than 

they. 



Suides o'er the desert and the deep ! to you 
rhe seaman turned, rejoicing at the helm. 
When from the regions of empyreal blue 
Ye poured soft radiance o'er the ocean realm ; 
To you the dweller of the plains addressed 
Vain prayers, that called the clouds and dews 
your own; 

22 



To you the shepherd, on the mountain's crest, 
Kindled the fires that far through midnigL* 

shone, 
As earth would light up all her hills, ;o vie 
With your immortal host, and image back tb» 

sky. 



Hail to the queen of heaven ! her silvery crowT 

Serenely wearing, o'er her high domain 

She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down, 

As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. 

Earth should be hushed in slumber — but the 

night 
Calls forth her worshippers ; the feast is spread, 
On hoary Lebanon's umbrageous height 
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed 
To her, whose beams illume those cedar shades 
Faintly as Nature's light the 'wildered soul per- 

vades. 



But when thine orb, all earth's rich hues restoring 
Cr,me forth, sun ! in majesty supreme. 
Still, from thy pure exhanstless fountain, pouring 
Beauty and life in each triurnphant beam, 
Through thine ow^n East what joyous rites pi - 

vailed ! 
What choral songs redchoed ! while thy fire 
Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled 
The precious incense of each odorous pyre. 
Heaped with the richest balms of spicy vales, 
And aromatic woods that scent th' Arabian gales. 



Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone. 
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strewed 
For the dark children of the burning zone 
Drew frenzy from thy fervors, and bedewed 
With their own blood thy shrine ; while thw 

wild scene, 
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel viewed. 
And though with glory mantled, and severe 
In his own fulness of beatitude, 
Yet mourned for those whose spirits from thj 

ray 
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day 



But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers 
Benignant seraphs ! wont to leave the skies, 
And hold high converse, 'midst his native bowers 
With the once glorious sun of Paradise, 
Looked ye from heaven in sadness ? were you 
strains 



SUPERSTITION AND KEVELATION. 



Of cl.(iral praise suspended in dismay, 
When the polluted shrine of Syria's plains 
With cloi^ds of incense dimmed the blaze of day r 
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes, 
While demons hailed the pomp of human sac- 
rifice ? 



And -well the powers of evil might rejoice, 
When rose from Tophet's vale th' exulting cry, 
And, deaf to Nature's supplicating voice, 
The frantic mother bore her child to die ! 
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands 
With sacred instinct : love hath lost its sway. 
While ruthless zeal thp sacrifice demands. 
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. 
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale ! 
Well may the drum's loud peal o'erpower an 
infant's wail ! 

XXV. 

A. voice of sorrow ! not from thence it rose ; 
'Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids, 
Where with red wave the mountain streamlet 

flows, 
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. 
With dirge and plaint the cedar groves resound, 
Each rock's deep echo for Adonis mourns : 
Weep for the dead ! Away ! the lost is found — 
To life and love the buried god returns ! 
Then wakes the timbrel — then the forests ring, 
And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze's 



But filled with holier joy th'j Persian stood, 
In silent reverence, on the mountain's brow, 
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood 
Of radiance burst around, above, below — 
Bright, boundless as eternity : he gazed 
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflowed 
In worship of th' Invisible, and praised 
In thee, O Sun ! the symbol and abode 
Of life, and power, and excellence — the throne 
Where dwelt the Unapproached, resplendently 
alone.' 

At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the 
following stanza was here inserted : — 

" Nor rose the Magian's hymn, sublimely swelling 

In full-toned homage to the source of flame, 
From fabric reared by man, the gorgeous dwelling 

Of such bright idol forms as ait could frame. 
He reared no temple, bade no walls contain 

The breath of incense or the voice of prayer; 
But made the boundless universe his fane, 

The rocks his altar stone — adoring there 
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades 
All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneUest sbjidea." 



XXVII. 

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, ga*i 
Mysterious sanctity to things which wear 
Th' Eternal's impress ? — if the living wave, 
The circling heavens, the fiee and boundlesi 

air — 
If the pure founts of everlasting flame, 
Deep in his country's hallowed vales enshrined. 
And the bright stars maintained a silent claim 
To love and homage from his awe- struck mmo 
Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream 
Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme 

XXVIII. 

And with that faith was conquest. He whos« 

name 
To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung — 
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame 
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, 
He came, the victor Cyrus ! As he passed, 
Thrones to his footstep rocked, and monarchs lay 
Suppliant and clothed with dust ; while nations 

cast 
Their ancient idols down before his way, 
Who, in majestic march, from shore to shore, 
The quenchless flame revered by Persia's chil- 
dren bore. 



[In the spring of 1820, Mrs. Hemans first made the ac- 
quaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and 
valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in 
death — Bishop Heber, then Rector of.Hodnet, and a fre- 
quent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in- 
law, the late Dean of St. Asaph, from whom also, during an 
intercourse of many years, Mrs. Hemans at all times re- 
ceived much kindness and courtesy. Mr. Reginald Hebwt 
was the first eminent literary character with whom she hau 
ever familiarly associated ; and she therefore entered with a 
peculiar freshness of feeling into the delight inspired by hia 
conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle 
benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the 
very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion 
she thus describes her enjoyment: — " I am more delighteC 
with Mr. Hebcr than I can possibly tell you ; his conversa 
tion is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on vvhick 
he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study 
of his life. In short, his society has made much t le same 
sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of Ivan- 
hoe did ; and was something so perfectly new to me, that 1 
can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long con- 
versation with him on the subject oi the poem, which he read 
aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner 
was so entirely tliat of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, 
and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opin 
ions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincid* 
with his own." 

The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Sup*rstitun 
and Revelation, which Mrs. Hemans had couunsnced sobw 



THE BASVIG LIANA OF MONTI. 



17! 



time before, and which was intended to embrace a very ex- 
rens've range of subject. Her original design will be best 
given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss 
Park : — "I have been thinlting a good deal of the plan we 
discursed togetlier, of a poem on national superstitions. 
» Our thoughts are Jinked by many a hidden chain,' and in 
the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea oc- 
curred to me, which I hope you will not think me too pre- 
sumptuous in wishing to realize. Might not a poem of some 
extent an- importance, if the execution were at all equal to 
di« design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets 
OJ Paganism with those of Christianity ? It would contain, 
of course, much classical allusion ; and all the graceful and 
sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the 
superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced 
to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour 
of affliction — or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from 
history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and 
the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the 
Boul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects 
for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions 



which are still strangers to the blessingsof our religion, suck 
as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., miglit contain mucl 
that is poetical ; but the subject is almost boundless, and 1 
think of it till I am startled by its magnitude." 

Mr. Heber approved highly of tlie plan of tlie work, and 
gave her every encouragement topn'ceed in it; supplying 
her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illus- 
trations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, 
and the sources from whence the requisite infoiriiation would 
best be derived. But the great labor and research necessary 
to the developmentof a plan which included the superstitions 
of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries — 
the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded 
to in the book of Job — to the still existing rites of the Hin- 
doos — would have demanded a course of study t(Tb engross- 
ing to be compatible with the many other claims, both do- 
mestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more 
upon the author's time. The work was, tlierefore, laid 
aside ; and the fragment now first published is all that re- 
mains of it, though the project was never distincH* 
abandoned.] 



ITALIAN LITERATURE.^ 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 

FKOM SISMONDI'S "LITTEEATUEE DU MIDI." 

ViNCEXzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is ac- 
Knowledged, by the unanimous consent of the 
Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. 
Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is 
always actuated by the impulse of the moment. 
Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthu- 
siastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his 
thoughts — they are present, and clothed with 
life — before him, and a flexible and harmonious 
language is always at his command to paint 
them with the richest coloring. Persuaded that 
poetry is only another species of painting, he 
makes the art of the poet consist in rendering 
apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created 
by his imagination for himself; and he permits 

1 " About this time (1320) Mrs. Hemans was an occasional 
contributor to the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, then con- 
ducted by the Rev. Rober' Morehead, whose liberal cour- 
tesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many 
agreeable recollections with the period of this literary inter- 
course. Several of her poems appeared in the above-men- 
tioned periodical, as aLo a series of papers on foreign litera- 
t>ire, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose 
compositions she ever gave to tte world ; and indeed to these 
papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely 
applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordi- 
nate to 'i.epoeacal translatic ns, which it is used to intro- 
'uc» ' -Veja^ir, p. 41 



not a verse to escape him which does not con- 
tain an image. Deeply impressed by the studj 
of Dante, he has restored to the character of 
Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties 
by which it was distinguished at its birth ; and 
he proceeds from one picture to another with a 
grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It ia 
extraordinary that, with something so lofty in 
his manner and style of writing, the heart of sc 
impassioned a character should not be regulated 
by principles of greater consistency. In many 
other poets, this defect might pass unobserved j 
but circumstances have throAVTi the fullest light 
upon the versatility of Monti, ana his glory as 
a poet is attached to works which display hjrn 
in continual opposition to himself. Writing in 
the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he 
has constantly chosen poHtical subjects for his 
compositions, and he has successively celebrated 
opposite parties in proportion to their success 
Let us suppose, in his justification, that he com 
poses as an improvisatore, and that, his feelings 
becoming highly excited by the given theme, he 
seizes the political ideas it suggests, however 
foreign they may be to his individual senti- 
ments.^ In these political poems — the object 

1 The observation of a French author (Z,e Censeur du I>i«- 
tionnaire des Oirouettes) on the general versatility of poeta 
seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti 
that it might almost be sui)posed to have been writien for tt»r 



1 72 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



and purport of which are so different — the in- 
dention and manner are, perhaps, but too simi- 
ar. The Basvigliaiia, or poem on the death of 
Basville, is the most celebrated ; but, since its 
appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, 
who always imitated Dante, has now also very 
frequently imitated himself. 

Hugh Basville was the French E-.ivoy who 
was put to death at Rome by the people, for 
attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, 
to excite a sedition against the Pontifical gov- 
ernment. Monti, who was then the poet of the 
Pope, a" he has since been of the Republic, sup- 
poses that, at the moment of Basville's death, 
he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the 
condemnation which his philosophical principles 
had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, 
and a substitute f^r the pains of purgatory, he 
is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse 
France until the crimes of that country have 
received their due chastisement, and doomed to 
contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to 
which he has contributed by assisting to extend 
the progress of the Revolution. 

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from 
province to province, that he may behold the 
desolation of his lovely country. He then con- 
veys him to Paris, and makes him witness the 
Bufferings and death of Louis XVI., and after- 
wards shows him the Allied armies prepared to 
burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her 
king. The poem concludes before the issue of 
the contest is known. It is divided into four 
cantos of three hundred lines each, and written 
in terza rima, like the poem of Dante. Not 
only many expressions, epithets, and lines are 
borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the in- 
vention itself is similar. An angel conducts 
Basville through the suffering world ; and this 
faithful guide, who consoles and supports the 
spectator hero of the poem, acts precisely the 
game part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. 
Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, ex- 
actly as Dante would have done. Monti has 
not preserved any traces of his revolutionary 
character — he describes him as feeling more 
pity than remorse — and he seems to forget, in 



express purpose of such an application. " Le cerveau d'un 
poete est d'unc cire iriolle et flexible, oii s'imprime naturelle- 
meiit tout ce qui le flatte, le seduit, et I'alimente. La muse 
du chant n'a pas de partie ; c'est una etourdie sans cons6- 
4nence, qui folatre egalernent et sur de riches gazons et sur 
4'arides hriiyeres. Un po^te en delire chante indifferemment 
I'itus et Thaiiiask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de 
8ii«de et Slaiichoii ia Viellowse " 



thus identifying himself with his hero, that ht 
has at first represented Basville, and perhaps 
without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious 
revolutionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more 
remarkable than any other poem for the majes- 
ty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, 
and the richness of its coloring. In t)^e first 
canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of 
the body : — 

" Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes 
Rest thou in deep and undisturbed repose ; 
Till at the last great day, from slumber's bed. 
Heaven's trumpet summons shall awake the 
dead. 

•' Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, 
And soft the breeze's wing, till that dread hour • 
Nor let the wanderer passing o'er thee breathe 
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. 

" Sleep thou in peace ! Beyond the funeral pyre 
There live no flames of vengeance or of ii-e ; 
And 'midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore 
Where mercy's home hath been from days of 
yore." 

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried. 
Then turned to follow its celestial guide ; 
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, 
A lingering step, and oft-reverted eye — 
As M'hen a child's reluctant feet obey 
Its mother's voice, and slowly leave its play. 

Night o'er the earth her dewy veil had cast. 
When from th' Eternal City's towers they passed, 
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome. 
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, 
Lo ! where a cherub form sublimely towered, 
But dreadful in his glory ! Sternly lowered 
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seemed 
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendci 

beamed 
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, 
Seen in the dread, o'erwhelming visions given 
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire 
Seemed his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire 
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, 
A comet's glare presaging woe and blood. 
He waved his sword — its red, terrific light 
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night 
While his left hand sustained a shield so vast, 
Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast 
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume 
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloora 



THE BASVIGLIAXA OF MONTI 



171 



O'er its youupf brood, as yet untaught to soar ; 
And whi]e, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar, 
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, 
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast. 
They sleep unheeding ; while the storm on high 
Breaks nor their calm and proud security. 

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with 
his angelica guide, at the moment preceding the 
execution of Louis XVI. 

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies 
Looked fraught with omens, as to harmonize 
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round 
Not a leaf whispered — and the only sound 
That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan 
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, 
As if a storm within the woodland bowers 
^Y9re gathering. On they moved — and lo ! the 

towers 
Of a far city ! Nearer now they drew ; 
And all revealed, expanding on their view, 
The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes — 
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose ! 

In the dark mantle of a cloud arrayed, 
Viewless and hushed, the angel and the shade 
Entered that evil city. Onward passed 
The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast 
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes 
Tears had obscured the splendor of the skies. 
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw 
That altered aspect, and, in breathless awe, 
Marked the strange silence roimd. The deep- 
toned swell 
Of life's full tide was hushed ; the sacred bell. 
The clamorous anvil, mute ; all sounds were fled 
Of labor or of mirth, and in their stead 
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe. 
Inquiring glances, rumors whispered low, 
Questions half uttered, jealous looks that keep 
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep 
That weighs upon the heart ; and voices, 

heard 
At intervals, in many a broken word — 
Voices of mothers, trembling as they pressed 
Th' unconscious infant closer to their breast ; 
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, 
A.nd the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, 
On their own thresholds striving to detain 
Their fierce impatient lords ; but weak and vain 
A.fFection's gentle bonds, in that dread hour 
Of fate and fury — Love hath lost his power ! 
For evil spmts are abroad, the air 
•breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms 
there. 



Fired by that thirst for victims which of old 
Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontrolled. 
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey 
The deepest crime that e'er hath dimmed th« 

day. 
Blood, human blood, hath stained their vesti 

and hair. 
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, 
Scattering red showers around then ! Flaming 

brands 
And serpent scourges in their restless hands 
Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high 
The steel, th' envenomed bowl ; and, hurry- 

iiig by. 
With touch of fire contagious fury dart 
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. 
Then comes the rush of crowds ! restrained no 

more, 
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour ; 
From every heart aff"righted mercy flies. 
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. 
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street 
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, 
The roll of Avheels, all mingling in the breezCj 
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas 
Heard at the dead of midnight ; or the moan 
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone 
Of the far thunder ! Then what feelings pressed 
O wretched Basville ! on thy guilty breast ; 
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold 
Death's awful banner to the winds unfold ! 
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high — 
The dark impatience of the murderer s eye. 
Eager for crime ! And he, the great, the good. 
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood 

Yet still his 

'Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene ; 
And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved • 
Where have you borne your monarch ? — He 

who loved — 
Loved you so well ! Behold ! the sue irrowe 

pale. 
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil , 
The misty air is silent, as in dread. 
And the dim sky with shade A^y gloom o'er* 

spread ; 
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, 
Look down, aU weeping, from their bowers ol 

rest. 

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile 
The regal victim came ; and raised the while 
His patient glance, with such an aspect high. 
So firm, so calm, in holy majesty. 



:74 



ITALIAN LITERATTJKE. 



That e'en the assassins' hearts a moment shook 
I^efore the grandeur of that kingly look ; 
And a strange thrill of pity, half renewed, 
Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. 

Like Him, -who, breathing mercy to the last, 
Prayed till the bitterness of death Avas passed — 
3'en for his murderers prayed, in that dark hour 
When his soul yielded to affliction's power. 
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad — 
•< Hast thou forsaken me, my God ! my God ! " 
E'en thus the monarch stood ; his prayer arose, 
Thus calhng dovm. forgiveness on his foes — 
" To Thee my spirit I commend," he cried ; 
" And my lost people, Father ! be their guide ! " 

Bui the sharp steel descends — the blow is given, 
And answered by a thunder peal from heaven ; 
Earth, stained with blood, convulsive terrors 

owns. 
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones ! 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERL 

The Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been 
the last tragedy he composed, and is distin- 
guished to a remarkable degree by that tender- 
ness of which his former works present so few 
examples. It would appear as if the pure and 
exalted affection by which the Aapetuosity of 
his fiery spirit was amehorated during the latter 
years of his life, had impressed its whole char- 
acter on this work, as a record of that domestic 
happiness in w^hose bosom his heart at length 
found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writ- 
ings bear witness to that " fever at the core," 
that burning impatience of restraint, and those 
incessant and untamable aspirations after a 
wider sphere of action, by which his youth was 
consumed ; but the poetry of Alcestis must find 
its echo in every heart which has known the 
i ower of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of 
their dissolution. The interest of the piece, how- 
ever, though entirely domestic, is not for a mo- 
ment allowed to languish ; nor does the conju- 
gal affection, which forms the mainspring of the 
action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insi- 
pidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis 
herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affec- 
tion, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to 
our imagination the calm and tempered majesty 
iisting'iishing the masterpiece? of Greek sculp- 
ture, ii which the expression of mental or bodi- 



ly suffering is never allowed to transgress tht 
limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of 
dignity and affliction impressing more than 
earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, 
would be, perhaps, the best illustration of tliw 
analogy. 

The following scene, in which Alcestis ar.« 
nounces to Pheres, the father of Admetus. the 
terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has de- 
clared that his son may be restored, has seldom 
been surpassed by the author, even in his most 
celebrated productions. It is, however, to be 
feared that little of its beauty can be transfused 
into a translation, as the severity of a style so 
completely devoid of imagery must render it 
dependent for many incommunicable attractions 
upon the melody of the original language. 



ACT I. — Scene H. 
Alcestis, Pheres. 

Ale. Weep thou no more ! O monarch, drv 
thy tears ! 
For know, he shall not die ; not now shall fate 
Bereave thee of thy son. 

Phe. "What mean thy words ? 
Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope ? 

Ale. Yes ! hope for thee — hope by the voice 
announced 
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield 
To other lips the tidings, meet alone 
For thee to hear from mine. 

Phe. But say ! O, say. 
Shall then my son be spared ? 

Ale. He shall, to thee. 
Thus hath Apollo said — Alcestis thus 
Confirms the oracle — be thou secure. 

Phe. O, sounds of jo}- ! He lives ! 

Ale. But nat for this ; 
Think not that e'en for this the stranger Joy 
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. 

Phe. Can there be grief when from his Dad 
of death 
Admetus rises ? What deep mystery lurks 
Within thy words ? What mean'st thou ? Gra- 
cious Heaven ! 
Thou, whose deep love is all his oa\;i, who 

hear'st 
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear 
Transport and life in that glad oracle 
To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged 
With death, and on thy pure, ingenuoiu 

brow, 
To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



17< 



Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art 

■wirapped 
[n troubled silence. Speak ! O, speak ! 

Ale. The gods 
Themselves have limitations to their power 
Impassable, eternal — and their will 
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : 
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life 
Of thy restored Admetus. 

P^e. In thy looks 
Thei e is expression, more than in thy words, 
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, 

what terms 
Can render fatal to thyself and us 
The rescued life of him thy soul adores ? 

Ale. O father ! could my silence aught avail 
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, 
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfilled 
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish ; 
And since too soon, too well it must be known, 
Hear it from me. 

Phe. Throughout my curdling veins 
Runs a cold, deathlike horror ; and I feel 
I am not all a father. In my heart 
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, 

fair and high-souled consort of my son ! 
More than a daughter ; and thine infant race. 
The cherished hope and glory of my age ; 
And, unimpaired by time, within my breast. 
High, holy, and unalterable love 

For her, the partner of my cares and joys. 
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, 
In what suspense, what agony of fear, 

1 wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see 
Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries. 
To some one of my race. 

Ale. Death hath his rights, 
Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers 
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, 
Already seized, the noble victim lay, 
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime 
And noonday, struck : — Admetus, the revered. 
The blessed, the loved, by all who owned his sway, 
By his illustrious parents, by the realms 
Surrounding his — and O, what need to add, 
How much by his Alcestis ? — Such was he, 
A-xeady in th' unsparing grasp of death 
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence 
Hath snatched him, and another in his stead. 
Though not an equal — (who can equal him ?) 
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. 
Another, of his lineage or to him 
By closest bonds united, must descend 
To tlio dark realm of Orcus in his place, 
»Vho thus alone is saved. 



Phe. What do I hear ? 
Woe to us, woe ! — what victim ? — who shall bfl 
Accepted in his stead ? 

Ale- The dread exchange 
E'en now, O father ! hath been made ; the prey 
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him 
For whom 'tis freely offered. Nor wilt thou, 
mighty goddess of th' infernal shades ! 
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, 
Disdain the victim. 

Phe. All prepared the prey ! 
And to our blood allied ! O heaven ! — and yei 
Thou bad'st me weep no more ! 

Ale. Yes ! thus I said. 
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep 
Thy son's nor I deplore my husband's doom 
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe 
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here oe heard 
Than those his death had caused. — With some 

few tears. 
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy. 
E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, 
The victim shall be honored who resigned 
Life for Admetus. Wouldst thou know the 

piey, 
The vowed, the willing, the devoted one, 
Offered and hallowed to th' infernal gods, 
Father ! — 'tis I. 

Phe. What hast thou done ? O heaven ! 
What hast thou done ? and think'st thou he is 

saved 
By such a compact ? Think'st thou he can Kve 
Bereft of thee ?— Of thee, his light of life, 
His very soul ! — Of thee, beloved far more 
Than his loved parents — than his childrei 

more — 
More than himself ? O, no ! it shall not be ! 
Thou perish, O Alcestis ! in the flower 
Of thy young beauty ? — perish, and destroy, 
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all. 
Who as a child adore thee I Desolate 
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee 
And think'st thou not of those whose tend« 

years 
Demand thy care ? — thy clildren ; T/iink of 

them ! 
O thou, the source of each domestic joy. 
Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives. 
His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die 
While I can die for thee ! Me, me alone, • 
The oracle demands — a withered stem, 
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. 
My race is run — the fulness of my years. 
The faded hopes of age, and all the love 
Which hath it? dwelling in a father's heart 



176 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, 
Inspired by thee, wliose youth with heavenly gifts 
So richly is endowed ; — all, all unite 
To grave in adamant the just decree, 
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live ! 
Pheres commands thee, Alcestis — live ! 
Xe'er, ne'sr shall woman's youthful love surpass 
An aged sire's devotedness. 

Ale. 1 know 
f hy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; 
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 
Strove to anticipate their high resolves. 
But if in silence I have heard thy words, 
Xow calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own 
rhey may not be withstood. 

Phe. What canst thou say 
Which I should hear ? ^ go, resolved to save 
Him who with thee would perish ; — to the shrine 
E'en now I fly. 

Ale. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. 
Already hath consenting Proserpine, 
From the remote abysses of her realms. 
Heard and accepted the terrific vow 
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties. 
To death. And I am firm, and well I know 
None can deprive me of the awful right 
That vow hath won. 

Yes ! thou mayst weep my fate, 
Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame 
My lofty purpose. O, the more endeared 
My life by every tie — the more I feel 
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice 
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend 
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead 
A guest more honored. 

In thy presence here 
Again I uttered the tremendous vow. 
Now more than haK fulfilled. I feel, I know. 
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins 
Th' insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. 
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard — he calls. 
He summons me away — and thou art saved, 
O my Admetus : — 

In the opening of the third act, Alcestis en- 
ters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, 
to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of 
Proserpine's statue. The following scene ensues 
oetween her and Admetus : — 

Ale. Here, O my faithful handmaids ! at the feet 
Of Proserpine's dread image spread my couch ; 
^ox 1 myself e'en now must offer here 



The victim she requires. And you, meanwnile, 
My children ! seek your sire. Behold him there, 
Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins 
Health's genial current fiows once more, as free 
As in his brightest days : and he shall hve — 
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, 
And with your innocent encircling arms 
Twine round him fondly. 

Eiim. Can it be indeed. 
Father, loved father ! that we see thee thus 
Restored -" What joy is ours ! 

Adm. There is no joy ! 
Speak not of joy ! Away, away! my grief 
Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more ! 
I know not of affection, and I feel 
No more a father. 

Eum. O, what words are these ? 
Are we no more thy children ? Are we not 
Thine own ? Sweet sister ! twine around his nect 
More close ; he must return the fond embrace. 

Adm. O children ! O my children I to my sou 
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, 
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more 
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound 
Of your soft accents but too well recalls 
The voice which was the music of my life. 
Alcestis ! my Alcestis ! was she not 
Of all her sex the flower ? Was woman e'er 
Adored like her before ? Yet this is she, 
The cold of heart, th' u: ;^rateful, who hath left 
Her husband and her infants ! This is she, 

my deserted children ! who at onco 
Bereaves you of your parents. 

Ale. Woe is me ! 

1 hear the bitter and repvoachful cries 

Of my despairing lord. With life's last powers, 
O, let me strive to soothe him still. Approach; 
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps 
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence. 
That he may hear and see me. 

Adm. Is it thou ? 
And do I see thee still r and com'st thou thus 
To comfort me, Alcestis ? Must I hear 
The dying accents thus f Alas ! return 
To thy sad couch — return ! 'tis meet for me 
There by thy side forever to remain. 

Ale. For me thy care is vain. Though meet 
for thee 

Adm. O voice ! O looks of death ! are these^ 
are these, 
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, 
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the Iit9 
Of my fond soul ? Alas ! liow faint a ray 
Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, 
Upon my drooping brow ! How heavily, 



l-HE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



177 



With what a weiejht of death thy languid voice 
Sinks on my heart ! too faithful far, too fond. 
Alcestis ! thou art dying — and for me ! 

Alce?tis ! and thy feeble hand supports 
With its last power, supports my sinking head, 
E'en now, wliile death is on thee ! O, the touch 
Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. 
I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine. 
The image of yon ruthless Deity, 
Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, 
There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. 

Vain is each obstacle — in vain the gods 
Themselves would check my fury. I am lord 

Of my own days — and thus I swear 

Ale. Yes ! swear, 
A.dmetus ! for thy children to sustain 
The load of life. All other impious vows. 
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will 
Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form 
Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchained. 
Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not, 
It is from them the inspiration flows 
Which in my language breathes ? They lend 

me power, 
Tliey bid me through thy strengthened soul 

transfuse 
High courage, noble constancy. Submit, 
Bow dovra to them thy spirit. Be thou calm ; 
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme 
To which I now approach, from whom but thee 
Should comfort be derived ? Afflict me not. 
In such an hour, with anguish worse than death. 
O faithful and beloved, support me still ! 

The choruses with which this tragedy is in- 
terspersed are distinguished for their melody and 
classic beauty. The following translation will 
give our readers a faint idea of the one by which 
the third act is concluded : — 

Ale. My children ! all is finished. Now, fare- 
well ! 
To thy fond care, Pheres ! I commit 
My widowed lord : forsake him not. 

Eum. Alas ! 
Sweet mother ! wilt thou leave us ? From thy side 
Are we forever parted ? 

Phe. Tears forbid 
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, 
More lifeless than the dying victim, see 
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet. 
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight 
Of his Alcestis. 

23 



Ale. O my handmaids ! still 
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose 
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs 
When death's last pang is o'er. 

C/iorus. 

Alas ! how weak 
Her struggling voice ! that last keen pang i? neiy 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be hushed, be silent, in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pang ; let tears unheard be shed 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend ! 

Upon thy faithful breast, 
The head that sinks with mortal pain oppressed 

And thou assistance lend 

To close the languid eye. 
Still beautiful in life's last agony. 

Alas, how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath, 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 
Death ! death ! thy work complete ! 
Let thy sad hour be fleet, 
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart, 
Th' adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

Chorus of Admetus. 

'Tis not enough, O, no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; 

Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand, 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below. 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oft when all joy is fled, 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Then to the blessed skies 
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! bow the knee, and pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears, 
Whom fate controls with adamantine sway ? 

O ruler of the spheres ! 
Jove ! Jove ! enthroned immortally on high. 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes 
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eyt 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father to revere. 



178 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA 



A TRAGEDY. 



BT ALESSAKDRO MAN20NI 



Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in 
Carmagnola, from Avhence his nom-de-guerre was 
derived, -vvas born in the year 1390. Whilst yet 
ft boy, and employed in the care of flocks and 
herds, the lofty character of his countenance 
was observed by a soldier of fortune, who in- 
vited the youth to forsake his rustic occupa- 
tions, and accompany him to the busier scenes 
of the camp. His persuasions were successful, 
and Francesco entered with him into the service 
of Facino Cane, Lord of Alessandria. At the 
time when Facino died, leaving fourteen cities 
acquired by conquest to Beatrice di Tenda, his 
wife, Francesco di Carmagnola was amongst the 
most distinguished of his captains. Beatrice 
afterwards marrying Philip Yisconti, Duke of 
Milan, (Avho rewarded her by an ignominious 
death for the regal dowery she had conferred 
upon him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the 
same time ; and having, by his eminent services, 
firmly established the tottering power of that 
prince, received from him the title of Count, 
and was placed at the head of all his forces. 
The natural caprice and ingratitude of Philip's 
disposition, however, at length prevailed ; and 
Carmagnola, disgusted \\il\\ the evident proof 
of his wavering friendship and doubtful faith, 
left his service and his territories, and after a 
variety of adventures took refuge in Venice. 
Thither the treachery of the Duke pursued him, 
and emissaries were employed to procure his 
assassination. The plot, however, proved abor- 
tive, and Carmagnola was elected captain gen- 
eral of the Venetian armies, during the league 
formed by that republic against the Duke of 
Milan. The war was at first carried on with 
much spirit and success, and the battle of Ma- 
clodio, gained by Carmagnola, was one of the 
most important and decisive actions of those 
times. The night after the combat, the victo- 
rious soldiers gave liberty to almost all their 
prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made 
a complaint on this subject to the Count, he 
inquired what was become of the captives ; and 
upon being informed that all, except four hun- 
dred had been set free, he gave orders that the 
remaining? ones also should be released imme- 
•iiately, according to the custom which pre- 
vaiJec' amongst the armies of those days, the 



object of which was to prevent a speedy termi 
nation of the war. This proceeding of Carma- 
gnola's occasioned much distrust and irritatior. 
in the minds of the Venetian rulers ; and theu 
displeasure was increased when the armada of 
the Republic, commanded by II Trevisani, was 
defeated upon the Po, without any attempt in 
its favor having been made by the Count. The 
failure of their attempt upon Cremona was also 
imputed to him as a crime ; and the Senate, re- 
solving to free themselves from a powerful chief, 
now become an object of suspicion, after many 
deliberations on the best method of carrying 
their designs into effect, at length determined 
to invite him to Venice, under pretence of con- 
sulting him on their negotiations for peace. He 
obeyed their summons without hesitation or 
mistrust, and was every where received with 
extraordinary honors during the course of his 
journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before 
he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were 
sent to meet him, by whom he was escorted to 
St. Mark's Place. When he was introduced 
into the ducal palace, his attendants were dis- 
missed, and informed that he would be in pri- 
vate with the Doge for a considerable time. He 
was arrested in the palace, then examined by 
the Secret Council, put to the torture, which a 
wound he had received in the service of the Re- 
public rendered still more agonizing, and con- 
demned to death. On the 5th May, 1432, he was 
conducted to execution, with his n- outh gagged, 
and beheaded between the two co.'umns of St. 
Mark's Place. With regard t6 the innocence 
or guilt of this distinguished ci aracter, there 
exists no authentic information. The author of 
the tragedy, which we are about to analyze, L^a 
chosen to represent him as entirely innocent, 
and probability at least is on this side. It is 
possible, that the haughtiness of an aspiring 
warrior, accustomed to command, and impAtient 
of control, might have been the principal cause 
of offence to the Venetians ; or perhaps theii 
jealousy was excited by his increasing power 
over the minds of an obedient army ; and, not 
considering it expedient to displace him, they 
resolved upon his destruction. 

This tragedy, which is formed upon the model 
of the English and German drama, comprisrj 
the history of Carmagnola's life, fiom the day 
on which he was made commander of the Ve- 
netian armies to that of his execution, thus em* 
tracing a period of about seven years Tha 
extracts we are about to present to our readers 
will enable them to form tlieir own opinion of « 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLa. 



piece Avhicb nas excited so much attention in 
Italy. The first dct opens in Venice, in the hall 
of the Senate. The Doge proposes that the 
Count di Carmagnola should be consulted on 
the projected league oetween the Republic and 
the Florentines, against the Duke of Milan. To 
this all agree ; and tne Count is introduced. 
He begins by justifying his conduct from the 
laiputations to which it might be liable, in con- 
sequence of his appearing as the enemy of the 
Prince whom he had so recently served : — 

He cast me down 

from the high place my blood had deail)' won ; 
And Avhen I sought his presence, to appeal 
tor justice there, 'twas vain ! My foes had 

formed 
Around his throne a barrier : e'en my life 
Became the mark of hatred ; but in this 
Their hopes have failed — I gave them not the 

time. 
My life ! — I stand prepared to yield it up 
On the pioud field, and in some noble cause 
For glory well exchanged ; but not a prey, 
Not to be caught ignobly in the t^s 
Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtained 
With you a place of refuge ; yet e'en here 
His snares were cast around me. Now all ties 
Are broke between us ; to an open foe, 
An open foe I come. 

He then gives counsel in favor of war, and 
retires, leaving the Senate engaged in delibera- 
tion. War is resolved upon, and he is elected 
commander. The fourth scene represents the 
nouse of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble ; 
but its character is much more that of English 
. than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, with- 
out difiiculty, to the celebrated monologue of 
Hamlet. 

A leader — or a fugitive ? To drag 

Slow years along in idle vacancy, 

A.S a worn veteran living on the fame 

Df former deeds — to offer humble prayers 

And blessings for protection — owing all 

Yet left me of existence to the might 

Of other swords, dependent on some arm 

Which soon may cast me off; or on the field 

To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life 

Rush proudly through my veins — to hail again 

My lofty star, and at the trumpet's voice 

To wake ! to rule ! to conquer ! — Which must be 

My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace 

•Jhruld be the choice of Venice, shall I cling 



Still poorly to ignoble safety here, 

Secluded as a homicide, who cowers 

Within a temple's precincts ? Shall not he 

Who made a kingdom's fate, control his own ! 

Is there not one among the many lords 

Of this divided Italy — not one 

With soul enough to envy that bright cro^Aii 

Encircling Philip's head ? And know they »o 

'Twas won by me from many a tyrant's grasp, 

Snatched by my hand, and placed upon the brov 

Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns 

Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize 

On him who best shall call the prowess forth 

Which slumbers in ray arm ? 

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, 
now arrives, and announces to him that war i^ 
resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the 
command of the armies, at the same time ad- 
vising him to act with caution towards his ene- 
mies in the Republic. 

Car. Think'st thou I know not whom to deenc 

my foes ? 
Ay, I could number all. 

Mar. And know'st thou, too, 
What fault hath made them such ? 'Tis tha' 

thou art 
So high above them : 'tis that thy disdain 
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one 
Hath done thee wrong ; but who, when so r« 

solved. 
Finds not his time to injure ? In thy thoughts 
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs , 
But they remember thee. The high in soul 
Scorn and forget ; but to the grovelling heart 
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not ; 
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. 
I counsel no vile arts, from w'hich my soul 
Revolts indignantly ; thou know'st it well : 
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet 
For the most lofty nature, — there is power 
Of winning meaner minds, without descent 
From the high spirit's glorious eminence, — 
And wouldst thou seek that magic, it yere 

thine. 

The first scene of the second act represents 
part of the Duke of Milan's camp near Maclodio, 
Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, 
a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberat- 
ing upon the state of the war. Pergola consid- 
ers it imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a 
contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza 
and Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action 



180 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



and Torello, who endeavors to convince them of 
its inexpediency. 

Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul 
Wni.'h fires each soldier's eye r 

Tor. I marked it -well. 
I heard th' impatient shout, th' exulting voice 
Of Hope and Courage ; and I turned aside, 
That on my brow the warrior might not read 
Th' involuntary thought whose sudden gloom 
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought 
That this vain semblance of delusive joy 
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought 
On wasted valor doomed to perish here. 

For these - what boots it to disguise the truth r 
These are no wars in which, for all things loved, 
And precious, and revered — for all the ties 
Clinging around the heart — for those whose 

smile 
Makes home so lovely — for his native land, 
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights ! 
These are no wars in which the chieftain's aim 
Ts but to station his devoted bands, 
And theirs, thus fixed — to die ! It is our fate 
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe 
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts 
They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on: 
But if delayed, if between flight and death 
Pausing they stand — is there no cause to doubt 
What choice were theirs ? And but too well 

our hearts 
That choice might here foresee. O, evil times. 
When for the leader care augments, the more 
Bright glory fades away ! Yet once again, 
This is no field for us. 

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to 
attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes 
of the second act represent the tent-of the Count 
in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for 
battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric 
poetry is introduced, in which the battle is de- 
scribed, and its fatal eff'ects lamented with all the 
feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears 
to us, however, that this ode, hymn, or chorus, 
as the author lias entitled it, striking as its ef- 
lect may be in a separate recitation, produces a 
much less powerful impression in the situation 
It occupies at present. It is even necessary, in 
order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it 
Bhould be reperused, as a thing detached from 
the tragedy. The transition is too violent, in our 
opinion, from a tragic action, in which the char- 
acters are represented as clothed with existence, 



and pass'ng before us with all their conttndira 
motives and feelings laid open to our inspec- 
tion, to the comparative coldness of a ijw 
piece, where the author's imagination expatiates 
alone. The poet may have been led into this 
error by a definition of Schlegel's, who, speak- 
ing of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opin- 
ion, that " the chorus is to be considered as a 
personification of the moral thoughts inspired 
by the action — as the organ of the poet, who 
speaks in the name of the whole human race. 
The chorus, in short, is the ideal spectator." 
But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek 
chorus Avas composed of real characters, and ex- 
pressed the sentiments of the people before 
whose eyes the action was imagined to be pass- 
ing : thus the true spectator, after witnessing in 
representation the triumphs or misfortunes of 
kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the 
idea supposed to be entertai^ied on the subject 
by the more enlightened part of the multitude. 
If the author, availing himself of his talent for 
lyric poetry, and varying the measure in con- 
formity to the subject, had brought his chorus 
into action — introducing, for example, a veteran 
looking down upon the battle from an eminence, 
and describing its vicissitudes to the persons be- 
low, with whom he might interchange a varie- 
ty of national and moral reflections — it appears 
to us that the dramatic eff'ect would have been 
considerably heightened, and the assertion that 
the Greek chorus is riot compatible with the sys- 
tem of the modern drama possibly disapproved. 
We shall present our readers with the entire 
chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to 
be read separately, and one to which the follow- 
ing title would be much more appropriate. 

The Battle of Maclodio, {or Macalo.) An Ode. 

Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet'i 

sound, 
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! 
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise 
Hollow and deep — and banners, all around, 
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies ; 
Here steel-clad bands in marshalled order shinci 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 

Lo ! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanished, hid by closing groops of foes ! 
Swords crossing swords flash lightning o'er thi 

fight. 
And the strife deepens, and the lifeblood flows ' 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



lb 



0, who are thoue ? What stranger hi his might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose ? 
What patriot hearts have nobly vowed to save 
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? 

One race, alas ! these foes — one kindred race, 
Were born and reared the same fair scenes 

among ! 
The stranger calls them brothers — and each 

face 
That brotherhood reveals ; one common tongue 
Dwells on their hps — the earth on which we 

trace 
Their heart's blood is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land, 
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature's guardian 

hand. 

D, grief and horror ! who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield ? 
What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare, 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field ? 
Think'st thou they know ? — they but inflict 

and share 
Misery and death, the motive unrevealed ! 
— Sold to a leader, sold himself to die. 
With him they strive — they fall — and ask not 

why. 

But are there none who love them ? Have they 

none — 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, 
And win with tears the husband and the son 
Back to his home, from this polluted scene ? 
And they whose hearts, when life's bright day 

is done. 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, 
Thoughts of the tomb — why cannot they as- 
suage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age ? 

Ask not ! — the peasant at his cabin door 
8it» calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down o'er fields he hath not 

ploughed. 
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar 
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain. 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest 

gaze 
**ixed on his mother's lips, intent to know, 



By names of insult, those whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadhest foe. 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
IJracelct and zone with radiant gems that glow 
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne-, 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Woe to the victors and the vanquished ! wo< ! 
The earth is heaped, is loaded with the a', tin ; 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow - 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. 
But from th' embattled front, already, lo ! 
A band recedes — it flies — all hope is vain, 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air. 
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquished in their wild despair. 
Chased, severed, scattered, o'er the ample 

ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there. 
Burst on their flight ; and hark ! the deepening 

sound 
Of fierce pursuit ! — still nearer and more near, 
The rush of war steeds trampling in the rear 

The day is won ! They fall — disarmed the) 

yield. 
Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying '. 
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field. 
Ah ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying ' 
Haste ! let the tale of triumph be revealed ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying ; 
He spurs — he speeds — with tidmgs of the 

day. 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, 

eager multitudes ! around him pressing ? 
Each hurrying where his breathless coursci 

foams. 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope conffeM 

ing! 
Know ye not whence th' ill-omened herald come* 
And dare ye dream he comes with words ci 

blessing r — 
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold • 
Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. 

1 hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry I 
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral 

strains : 
E'en now the homicides assail the sky 
With paeans, which indignant Heaver disdains 



,^.2 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



But frnm the soaring Alps the stranger's eye 
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, 
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below. 

Haste ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 

Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joys sus- 
pending. 

Ih' invader comes : your banners raise anew. 

Rush to the strife, your country's call attending ! 

Victors! why pause ye? — Are ye weak and 
few? — 

Ay ! such he r'eemed you, and for this de- 
scending, 

He waits you on the field ye know too well. 

The same red war field where your brethren fell. 

thou devoted land ! that canst not rear 

In peace thine offspring ; thou, the lost and won, 

The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 

Too narrow still for each contending son ; 

Receive the stranger, in his fierce career 

Parting thy spoils ! Thy chastening is begun ! 

Anxl, wresting from thy kings the guardian 

sword. 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wronged sit proud- 
ly at thy board. 

Are these infatuate too ! — O, who hath known 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest? 
The wronged, the vanquished, suff"er not alone ; 
Brief is that joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown, 
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his 

haughty crest, 
Well hath it marked him — and decreed the 

hour 
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its 

power. 

Ar B we not creatures of one hand divine. 
Formed in one mould, to one redemption born ? 
Kindred alike where'er our skies may shine. 
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn ? 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should 

twine, 
And woe to him uy whom that bond is torn 1 
Who mounts ly trampling broken hearts to 

earth. 
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth ! 

The third act, which passes entirely in the 
tent of the Count, is composed of long dis- 
20urscs between Carmagnola and the Venetian 
envoys. One of these re'^uires him to pursue 



the fugitives after his victory, which he I augh 
tily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave 
the field until he has gained possession of the 
surrounding fortresses. Another complains that 
the Condottieri and the soldiers have released 
their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an 
established military custom ; and, sending for 
the remaining four hundred captives, he gives 
them their liberty also. This act, which termi- 
nates with the suspicious observations rt tJ3« 
envoys on Carmagnola'? jonduct, is ratr;^r n&^- 
ron of interest, though ihe cjnsode of the youi gei 
Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, 
is happily imagined. 

As the prisoners are departing, the Count ob- 
serves the younger Pergola, and stops him. 

Car. Thou art not, youth ! 
One to be numbered with the vulgar crowd. 
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would 

speak 
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest 
Thou minglest, and art silent ! 

Per. Silence best, 

chief ! befits the vanquished. 
Car, Bearing up 

Against thy fate thus proudly, thou, art proved 
Worthy a better star. Thy name .'' 

Per. 'Tis one 
Whose heritage doth impose no common task 
On him that bears it ; one which to adorn 
With brighter blazonry were hard emprisp • 
My name is Pergola. 

Car. And art thou, then, 
That warrior's son ? 

Per. I am. 

Car. Approach ! embrace 
Thy father's early friend ! What thou art no-W 

1 was when first we met. O, thou dost brmg 
Back on my heart remembrance of the days, 
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days, 
Of hope and ardor. And despond not thou ! 
My dawn, 'tis true, with brighter omens smiled, 
But still fair Fortune's glorious promises 

Are for the brave ; and, though delayed a whil« 
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth ! salute 
Thy sire for me ; and say, though not of thee 
I asked it, yet my heart is well assured 
He counselled not this battle. 

Per. O, he gave 
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words 
Were spoken to the winds. 

Car. Lament thou not. 
Upon his chieftain's head the shame will rest 
Of this defeat ; and he who firmly stood 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



Iv 



Fixed at his post of peril hath begun 
A soldier's race full nobly. Follow me ; 
I will restore thy sword. 

The fourth act is occupied by the machina- 

Uons of the Count's enemies at Venice ; and the 

;alous and complicated policy of that Republic, 

and the despotic authority of the Council of 

fen are skilfully developed in many of the 

The drst scene of the fifth act opens at Venice 
:. the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola 
is consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace 
offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is 
received with disdain, and, after various insults, 
he is accused of treason. His astonishment and 
indignation at this unexpected charge are ex- 
pressed with aU the warmth and simplicity of 
innocence. 

Car. A traitor ! I ! — that name of infamy 
iieaches not me. Let him the title bear 
Who best deserves such meed — it is not mine. 
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit, 
For such my part is here ; yet would I not 
Exchange that name, for 'tis the worthiest still. 
A traitor ! — I retrace in thought the time 
When for your cause I fought ; 'tis all one path 
Strewed o'er with flowers. Point out the day 

on which 
A traitor's deeds were mine ; the day which 

passed 
(Jnmarked by thanks, and praise, and promises 
Of high reward ! What more ? Behold me here ! 
And when I came to seeming honor called. 
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice 
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith — 
Of trusting faith ! — O, no ! Doth he who comes 
Th' invited guest of friendship dream of faith ? 
I came to be insnared ! Well ! it is done, 
And be it so ! but since deceitful hate 
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, 
Praise be to Heaven ! an open field at least 
Is spread before us. Now 'tis yours to speak, 
Mine to defend my cause ; declare ye then 
My ti i isons ! 

Dogi. By the secret college soon 
All shall be told thee. 

Car. I appeal not there. 
What I have d<me for you hath all been done 
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not 
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior's deeds 
Warriors alone should judge ; and such I choose 
To be mine arbiters — my proud defence 
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. 



Doge. The time for choice is past. 

Car. What ! Is there force 
Employed against me r — Guards ! (raising h\ 
voice.) 

Doge. They are not nigh. 
Soldiers ! {enter armed men.) Thy guards art 
these. 

Car. I am betrayed ! 

Doge. 'Twas then a thought of wisdom U 
disperse 
Thy followers. Well and justly was it deemed 
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised 
Might prove a rebel too. 

Car. E'en as ye list. 
Now be it yours to charge me. 

Doge. Bear him hence, 
Before the secret college. 

Car. Hear me yet 
One moment first. That ye have doomed mj 

death 
I well perceive ; but with that death ye doom 
Your own eternal shame. Far o'er these towers, 
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats 
The banner of the Lion, in its pride 
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe 

know 
/ bore it thus to empire. Eerct 'tis true, 
No voice will speak men's thoughts ; but fai 

beyond 
The limits of your sway, in other scenes, 
Where that still, speechless terror hath no- 
reached. 
Which is your sceptre's attribute, my deeds 
And your reward will live in chronicles 
Forever to endure. Yet, yet respect 
Your annals, and the future ! Ye will need 
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours ? 
Forget not, though your captive now 1 stand, 
I was not born your subject. No ! my birth 
Was 'midst a warlike people, one in soul, 
And watchful o'er its rights, and used to deem 
The honor of each citizen its own. 
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard ? 
There is some treachery here. Our common fot* 
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye knoH- 
I have been faithful still. There yet is time. 

Doge. The time is past. When thou did&l 
meditate 
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy 
Those destined to chastise it, then the hour 
Of foresight should have been. 

Car. O, mean in soul ! 
And dost thou dare to think a warrior's breast 
For worthless life can tremble ? Thou shalt sool 
Learn how to die. Go I When the hour of fatf 



IS4 



ITALIAN LITERATUKii. 



On thy vile couch o'ertakes thee, thou wilt meet 
Its summons witli far other mien than such 
As I shall bear to ignominious death. 

Scene II — The House of Carmagnola. 

Antonietta, Matilda. 

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, 
and yet 
My father comes not ! 

Ant. Ah ! thou hast not learned, 
By sad experience, with how slow a pace 
Joys ever come ; expected long, and oft 
Deceiving expectation ! while the steps 
Of grief o'ertake us ere we dream them nigh. 
But night is past, the long and lingering hours 
Of hope deferred are o'er, and those of bliss 
Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, 
And he is with us. E'en from this delay 
I augur well. A council held so long 
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours, 
Perhaps for years our own. 

Mat. O mother ! thus 
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, 
And days in all the sickness of suspense. 
Our anxious love hath passed. It is full time 
That each sad moment, at each rumored tale, 
Each idle murmur of the people's voice, 
We should not longer tremble, that no more 
This thought should haunt our souls. — E'en 

now, perchance, 
1^(^ for whom thus your hearts are yearning — 
dies ! 
Ant. O, fearful thought — but vain and dis- 
tant now ! 
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with 

grief. 
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led 
In triumph 'midst the noble and the brave. 
Thy glorious father to the temple bore 
The banners won in battle from his foes ? 
Mat, A day to be remembered ! 
A7it. By his side 
Each seemed inferior. Everj^ breath of air 
Swell 3d with his echoing name ; and we, the while 
Stationed on high and severed from the throng. 
Grazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, 
While, with the tide of rapture half o'erwhelmed. 
Our hearts beat high, and whispered — ** We 
are his." 
Mat. Moments of joy ! 
Ant. What have we done, ray child, 
lb merit such ? Heaven, for so high a fate, 
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow 
Inscribrd a lofty name — a name so bright, 



That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, whate'ei 
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark 
For envy is the glory of our lot ! 
And we should weigh its joys against these houri 
Of fear and sorrow. 

Mat. They are past e'en now. 
Hark ! 'twas the sound of oars ! — it swell* — 

'tis hushed ! 
The gates unclose. O mother ! I behold 
A warrior clad in mail — he comes ! 'tis he ! 
Ant. Whom should it be if not himself ? ~ 

my husband ! {She comes forward.) 

{Enter Gonzaga and others. ) 

Ant. Gonzaga ! — Where is he we looked foi i 
Where ? 
Thou answer'st not ! O Heaven ! thy looks are 

fraught 
With prophecies of woe ! 

Gon. Alas ! too true 
The omens they reveal ! 

Mat. Of woe to whom ? 

Gon. O, why hath such a task o bitterntss 
Fallen to my lot ? 

Ant. Thou wouldst be pitiful. 
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense ' 
Speak ! I adjure thee, in the name of God ! 
Where is my husband ? 

Go7i. Heaven sustain your souls 
With fortitude to bear the tale ! My chief 

Mat. Is he returned unto the field ? 

Gon. Alas ! 
Thither the warrior shall return no mo* a. 
The senate's wrath is on him. He is now 
A prisoner ! 

Ant. He is a prisoner ! — and for what ? 

Gon. He is accused of treason. 

Mat. Treason ! He 
A traitor ! — O, my father ! 

Ant. Haste ! proceed, 
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for t\l 
Say, what shall be his sentence ? 

Gon. From my lips 
It shall not be revealed. 

Ant. O, he is slain ! 

Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fixed. 

Aiit. He lives ! 
Weep not, my daughter ! 'tis the time to act. 
For pity's sake, Gonzaga, be thou not 
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee 
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. 
He was thy friend — ah ! haste, thei. be ou» 

guide ; 
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child . 
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is lofl 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



l»i 



Mercy upon the earth. Yes ! they themselves 
Are husbands, they are fathers ! When they 

signed 
The fearful sentence, they remembered not 
He was a father and a husband too. 
But when their eyes behold the agony 
One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts 

will melt : 
They 's^dll, tJicy micst revoke it. O, the sight 
Of mortal woe is terrible to man ! 
Perhaps the warrior's lofty soul disdained 
To vindicate his deeds, or to recall 
His triumphs won for them. It is for us 
To wake each high remembrance. Ah ! we know 
That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, 
And we will pray. 

Gon. O Heaven ! that I could leave 
Your hearts one ray of hope ! There is no ear, 
No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf. 
Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt 
Falls heavy, and the hand by which 'tis launched 
Is veiled in clouds. There is one comfort still, 
The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, 
I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. 
The moments fly. Arouse your strength of 

heart. 
3, fearful is the trial, but the God 
Of mourners will be with you. 

Mat, Is there not 
One hope ? 

Ant. Alas ! my child ! 

Scene IV. — A Prison, 

Carmaonola. 

They must have heard it now. — O that at least 
£ might have died far from them ! Though their 

hearts 
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, 
The solemn hour of nature's part.'-g pangs 
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now. 
And we must drain its draught of bitterness 
Together, drop by drop. O, ye wide fields. 
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms ! 
0, proud delights of danger ! Battle cries, 
And thou, my Avar steed ! and ye trumpet notes 
Kindling the soul ! 'Midst your tumultuous joys 
Death seemed all beautiful. — And must I then, 
With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate 
Be dragged, e'en as a felon, on the winds 
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints ? 
And Marco ! hath he not betrayed me too r 
Vile doubt ! That I could cast it from my soul 
Before I die ! - But no ! What boots it now 
'^hus to look bacK on life with eye that turns 
24 



To linger where my footstep may not tread ? 
Now, Philip ! thou wilt triumph ! Be it so ! 
I too have proved such vain and impious joyi*, 
And know their value now. But 0, again 
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last. 
Last accents of their voices ! By those arms 
Once more to be encircled, and from thence 
To tear myself forever ! — Hark ! they come 1 - 
O God of mercy, from thy throne look down 
In pity on their woes ! 

Scene V. 

Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and 
Carmagnola. 

Ant. My husband ! 

Mat. O my father ! 

Ant. Is it thus 
That thou returnest ? and is this the hour 
Desired so long ? 

Car. O ye afflicted ones ! 
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alore. 
Long have my thoughts been used to look ^t 

Death, 
And calmly wait his time. For you alone 
My soul hath need of firmness ; will ye, then, 
Deprive me of its aid ? When the Most High 
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows 
The courage to sustain them. O, let yours 
Equal your sorrows ! Let us yet find joy 
In this embrace : 'tis still a gift of Heaven. 
Thou weep'st, my child! and thou, belov6'* 

wife ! 
Ah ! when I made thee mine, thy days flowed on 
In peace and gladness ; I united thee 
To my disastrous fate, and now the thought 
Imbittcrs death ! O that I had not seen 
The woes I cause thee ! 

Ant. Husband of my youth ! 
Of my bright days, thou who didst make them 

bright, 
Read thou my heart ! the pangs of death are 

there. 
And yet e'en now — I would not but be thine. 

Car. Full well I know how much I lose ii 
thee ; 
O, make me not too deeply feel it now. 

Mat. The homicides ! 

Car. No, sweet Matilda, no ! 
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance ris» 
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb 
These moments — they are sacred. Yes! m^ 

wrongs 
Are deep ; but thou, forgivo them, and confers 
That, e'en 'midst all the fulness of our woe. 



1)6 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



fligh, holy joy remains. Death ! death ! — our 

foes, 
C ar most relentless foes, can only speed 
1 a' inevitable hovir. O, man hath not 
Invented death for man ; it would be then 
Maddening and insupportable : from Heaven 
Tis sent, and Heaven doth temper all its pangs 
^''ith such blest comfort as no mortal power 
Can give or *ake away. My wife ! my child ! 
Hear my las\ words — they wring your bosoms 

now 
With agony, but yet, some future day, 
'Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife ! 
Sustain thy grief, and live ! this ill-starred girl 
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, 
Conduct her to thy kindred : she is theirs, 
Of their own blood — and they so loved thee 

once ! 
Then, to their foe united, thou becam'st 
Less dear ; for feuds and wrongs made warring 

sounds 
Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. 
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return 
A mourner ; and the object of their hate 
Will be no more. — O, there is joy in death ! — 
And thou, my flower ! that, 'midst the din of 

arms, 
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head 
Droops to the earth ! Alas ! the tempest's rage 
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart 
Can scarce contains the heavings of its woe. 
I feel thy burning tears upon my breast — 
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim 
Pity from me, Matilda ? O, thy sire 
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st 
That the forsaken have a Father still 
On high. Confide in Him, and live to days 
Of peace, if not of joy ; for such to thee 
He surely destines. Wherefore hath he poured 
The torrent of affliction on thy youth. 
If to thy future years be not reserved 
All His benign compassion ! Live ! and soothe 
Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms 
Of no ignoble consort lead thee still ! — 
Gonzaga ! take the hand which thou hast pressed 
Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts 
[lad cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. 
Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith 
To guide and guard these mourners, till they 

join 
Their friends and kindred ? 
Gon, Rest assured, I will. 
Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, 
Thou to the field returnest, there for me 
Salute my brethren ; tell them that I died 



Guiltless ; thou hast been witness of my deeds. 
Hast read my inmost thoughts — and know' si 

it well. 
Tell them I never with a traitor's shame 
Stained my bright sword. O, never ! — I myself 
Have been insnared by treachery. Think of ms 
When trumpet notes are stirring every heart, 
And banners proudly waving in the air, — 
Think of thine ancient comrade ! And he da} 
Following the combat, when upon the fie^d, 
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony 
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, 
With lifted hands, is ofi'ering for the slain 
His sacrifice to Heaven, forget me not ! 
For I, too, hoped upon the battle plain 
E'en so to die. 

Ant. Have mercy on us, Heaven ! 
Car. My wife ! Matilda ! Now the hour is 
nigh, 
And we must part. — Farewell ! 
Mat. No, father ! no ! 

Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, 
and then 
For pity's sake depart ! 
Ant. No ! force alone 
Shall tear us hence. 

{^A sound of arms is heard.) 
Mat. Hark ! what dread sound ! 
Ant. Great God ! 

( The door is half opened, aiid armed men 
entei; the chief of whom advances ta 
the Count. His wife a7id daughte' 
fall senseless.) 
Car. O God ! I thank thee. most merciful 1 
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs 
Of this dread moment's conflict ! 

Thou, my friend, 
Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, 
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose 
To meet the day — that nought is left to fear. 

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the 
last act, the attention which this tragedy has ex- 
cited in Italy must be principally attributed to the 
boldness of the author in so completely emanci- 
pating himself from the fetters of the dramatic 
unities. The severity with which the tragic poets 
of that country have, in general, restricted them- 
selves to those rules, has been sufficiently remark 
able to obtain, at least, temporary distinction foi 
the courage of the writer who should attempt to 
violate them. Although this piece comprises a 
period of several years, and that, too, in days 
so troubled and so ♦'full of fate" --days in 
which the deepest passions and most powerful 



CAi:;S GRACCHUS. 



ibi 



3nergies of the human mind were called into 
action by the strife of conflicting interests — 
rhere is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of 
ncident, as if " to be born and die " made all 
the history of aspiring natures contending for 
supremacy. The character of the hero is por- 
trayed in words, not in actions ; it does not un- 
fold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and 
passions, and the interest excited for him only 
commences at the moment when it ought to have 
reached its climax. The merits of the piece 
may be summed up in the occasional energy of 
the language and dignity of the thoughts ; and 
the truth with which the spirit of the age is 
characterized, as well in the development of that 
suspicious policy distinguishing the system of 
the Venetian government, as in the pictures of 
the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of 
war — 

"Jealous of honor, sudden and quick in quarrel.'' 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 



A TRAGEDY. 



This tragedy, though inferior in power and 
mterest to the Aristodemo of the same author, is 
nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high 
order, and such as, in our opinion, fully estab- 
lish its claims to more general attention than it 
has hitherto received. Although the loftiness 
and severity of Roman manners, in the days of 
the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved 
to give an impressive character to the piece, yet 
those workings of passion and tenderness — 
without which dignity soon becomes monoto- 
nous, and heroism unnatural — have not been 
(as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar sub- 
jects) too rigidly suppressed. 

The powerful character of the high-hearted 
Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty 
which our ideas are wont to associate with the 
name of a Roman matron, and the depth and 
sublimity of maternal affection more particular- 
ly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are 
beautifully contrasted with the softer and more 
womanish feelings, the intense anxieties, the 
sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied 
in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. 
The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are 
full of majestic eloquence ; and the whole piece 
Beems to be animated by that restless and un- 
tamable spirit of freedom, whose immortalized 



struggles for ascendency give so vivid a coloi 
ing, so exalted an inteiest, to the annals of th« 
^'.cient republics. 

The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Cams 
Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, 
after haying been employed in rebuilding Car 
thage, which Scipio had utterly demolished. 

Caius, in Rome behold thyself ! The night 
Hath spread her favoring shadows o'er thy path 
And thou, be strong, my country ! for th)"- soc 
Gracchus is with thee ! All is hushed around, 
And in deep slumber ; from the cares of day 
The worn plebeians rest. O, good and true, 
And only Romans ! your repose is sweet, 
For toil hath given it zest ; 'tis calm and pure, 
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, 
My brother's murderers, the patricians, hold 
Inebriate vigils o'er their festal boards. 
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me 
To death, and Rome to chains. They little 

deem 
Of the unlooked-for and tremendous foe 
So near at hand ! — It is enough. I tread 
In safety my paternal threshold. — Yes ! 
This is my own ! O mother ! O my wife ! 
My child ! — I come to dry your tears. I come 
Strengthened by three dread furies : — One is 

wrath, 
Fired by my country's wrongs ; and one deep 

love, 
For those, my bosom's inmates ; and the third — 
Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother's 

blood ! 

His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance 
of Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate 
character and unprincipled designs he is repre- 
sented as unacquainted. From the opening 
speech made by Fulvius (before he is aware of 
the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he 
is attended, it appears that he is just returned 
from the perpetration of some crime, the nature 
of which is not disclosed until the second act. 

The suspicions of Caius are, however, awa- 
kened, by the obscure allusions to some act of 
signal but secret vengeance, which Fulvius 
throws out in the course of the ensuinsr dis 



Ful. This is no time for grief and feeble tears 
But for high deeds. 

Caius. And we will make it such 
But prove we first our strength. Declare, whtf". 
friends 



L<J8 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



{If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain 
True to our cause? 
Ful. Few, few, but valiant hearts ! 

what a change is here ! There was a time 
When, over all supreme, thy word gave law 
To nations and their rulers ; in thy presence 
The senate trembled, and the citizens 
Flocked round thee in deep reverence. Tlien a 

'-^rd, 
A look from Caius — a salute, a smile, 
Filled them with pride. Each sought to be the 

friend, 
The client, ay, the very slave, of him. 
The people's idol ; and beholding them 
Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself, 
Didst blush to see their vileness ! But thy for- 
tune 
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt 
Into dim vapor ; and the earthly god, 
So worshipped once, from his forsaken shrines 
Down to the dust is hurled. 
Caius. And what of this ? 
There is no power in fortune to deprive 
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart 
As meets the storm exultingly — a heart 
Whose stern delight it is to strive with fate. 
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible 
But because man is vile. A coward first 
Made her a deity. 

But say, what thoughts 
Are fostered by the people ? Have they lost 
The sense of their misfortunes ? Is the name 
Of Gracchus in their hearts (reveal the truth) 
Already numbered with forgotten things ? 
Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, 
now there, 
Borne on light pinion — such the people's love ! 
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults 
Are of their miseries ; and their feebleness 
Is to their woes proportioned. Haply still 
The Fecret sigh of their full hearts is thine. 
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute ; 
And t\e. deep paleness of their timid mien, 
And eyes in fixed despondence bent on earth, 
And sometime* a faint murmur of thy name, 
Alone accuse them. They are hushed — for now 
Not one, nor two, their tyrants ; but a host 
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich, 
And the patrician Romans. Yes ! and well 
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth, 
P^r Rome is widowed ! Distant wars engage 
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led, 
\nd b'lt the wcr.k remain. Hence every heart 



Sickens with voiceless terror ; and the people, 
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thoughtj 
But j-et are silent. 

Caius. I will make them heard. 
Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice 
Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt scfi 1 cam? 
Prepared for all ; and as I tracked the deep 
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew 
Familiar in its musings. With a voice 
Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swelled , the 

waves 
Muttered around ; heaven flashed in lightning 

forth. 
And the pale steersman trembled : I the while 
Stood on the tossing and bewildered bark. 
Retired and shrouded in my mantle's folds, 
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all ab- 
sorbed 
In a far deeper storm ! Around my heart, 
Gathering in secret then, my spirit's powers 
Held council with themselves ; and on my 

thoughts 
My country rose, — and I foresaw the snares. 
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate, 
And my false friends, awaiting my return. 

Fulvius ! I wept , but they were tears of 

rage ! 
For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought 
Of my wronged country, and of him, that brothei 
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly 

cried 
«' Vengeance ! " — nor found it yet. 

Ful. It is fulfilled. 

Caius. And how ? 

Ful. Thou shalt be told. 

Caius. Explain thy words. 

Ful. Then know — (incautious that 1 aja !) 

Caius. Why thus 
Falters thy voice ? Why speak' st thou not ? 

Ful. Forgive ! 
E'en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. 

Caius. No ! 
True friendship, never ! 

Caius afterwards Inquires what part hi» 
brother-in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to 
adopt in their enterprises. 

His high renown — 
The glorious deeds, whereby was earned hi< 

name 
Of second Africanus ; and the blind. 
Deep reverence paid him by the people's hearth 
Who, knowing him their foe. resf ect him still 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 



"Hi 



A.11 this disturbs me : hardly ■will be won 
Our day of victory, if by him withstood. 

Ful. Yet won it shall be. If but this thou 
fear'st, 
Then be at peace. 

Cuius. I undt^rstand thee not. 

Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly 
waste 
Our cime and word>. Soon will the morning 

break, 
Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return ; 
I fly to cheer them with the tidings. 

Cuius. Stay ! 

Ful. And wherefore ? 

Cuius. To reveal thy meaning. 

Fid. Peace ! 
t hear the sound of steps. 

This conversation is interrupted by the en- 
trance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of 
Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in 
the house of Emilianus, b)^ whom Cornelia has 
been warned of the imminent danger which men- 
aces the family of her son from the fury of the 
patricians, who intend, on the following day, to 
abrogate the laws enacted by the Gracchi in fa- 
vor of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of 
Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may 
appear somewhat inconsistent with his having 
remained so long engaged in political discus- 
sion, on the threshold of their abode, without 
ever having made an inquiry after their welfare ; 
out it would be somewhat unreasonable to try 
the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a trage- 
dy) by the laws of nuture. Before, however, we 
are disposed to condemn the principles which 
seem to be laid down for the delineation of Ro- 
man character in dramatic poetry, let us recol- 
lect that the general habits of the people whose 
institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur 
displayed in the actions of the elder Brutus, 
and whose towering spirit was fostered to en- 
thusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have 
been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even 
tneir virtues. Shakspeare alone, without com- 
promising the dignity of his Romans, has disen- 
cumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery 
which seems to be their ojficial garb, and has 
•tamped their features with the general attri- 
butes of human nature, without effacing the 
impress which distinguished " the men of iron " 
from the nations who •' still stood before them." 

The first act concludes with the parting of 
l^aius and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion — 
Co^ncilia having accused the latter t f an attempt 



to seduce her daughter, the wife of Soipio, and 
of concealing the most atrocious designs undei 
the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty 

Of liberty 
What spcak'st thoix, and to whom : Thou hasi 

no shame — 
No virtue — and thy boast is, to be free ! 
O, zeal for liberty ! eternal mask 
Assumed by every crime ! 

In the second act, the death of Emilianus is 
announced to Opimius the consul, in the pres- 
ence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accom- 
panied by a rumor of his having perished by 
assassination. The mysterious expressions of 
I'ulvms, and the accusation of Cornelia, imme- 
diately recur to the mind of Caius. The fol- 
lowing scene, in which his vehement emotion, 
and high sense of honor, are well contrasted 
with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is 
powerfully wrought up. 

Caius, Back on my thoughts the words of 
Fulvius rush. 
Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart ! 

{Fulvius enters.) 
Thou com'st in time. Speak, thou perfidious 

friend ! 
Scipio lies murdered on his bed of death ! — 
Who slew him ? 

Ful. Ask'st thou me ? 

Caius. Thee ! thee, who late 
Didst in such words discourse of him as now 
Assure me thou'rt his murderer. Traitor, speak ! 

Ful. If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy lieart, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 
More grateful praise and warmer thanks might 

well 
Reward the generous courage which hath freed 
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe. 

Caius. Then he was slain by thee ? 

Ful. Ungrateful friend ! 
Why dost thou tempt me ? Danger menaces 
Thy honor. Freedom's wavering light is dim j 
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate ; 
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death 
Of infamy, another seeks thy fall ; 
And when one noble, one determined stroke 
To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks 
The people's vengeance, gives thee life and fame 
And pacifies thy brother's angry shade. 
Is it a cause for wailing ? Am I called 
For this a murderer ? Go ! — I say once more. 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou rs^e.^* ' 



ISO 



ITALIAN LITERATUKE. 



Cuius. I know thee now, barbarian ! Wouldst 

thou serve 
My cause with crimes ? 

Fill. And those of that proud man 
Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, tivethey 
To be forgotten ? Hath oblivion then 
Shrouded the stern destroyer's ruthless work, 
The famine of Numantia ? Such a deed 
A& on our name the world's deep curses drew ! 
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betrayed, 
^\nd with their bleeding, mutilated limbs 
Back to their parents sent ? Is this forgot ? 
Go, ask of Carthage ! — bid her wasted shores 
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount 
Tilt terrible achievements ! At the cries. 
The groans, th' unutterable pangs of those. 
The more than hundred thousand wretches, 

doomed 
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, 
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth 
In horror doth not open ! They were foes. 
They were barbarians, but unarmed, subdued, 
Weeping, imploring mercy ! And the law 
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak. 
To tame the lofty ! But in other lands, 
Why should I seek for records of his crimes, 
If here the suffering people ask in vain 
A little earth to lay their bones in peace ? 
If the decree which yielded to their claims 
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal 
Thy brother's blood was shed — if this remain 
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he 
That mocked its pow 3r ? — Who to all Rome 

declared 
Thy brother's death was just, was needful ? — 

Who 
But Scipio ? And remember thou the words 
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e'en then, 
Heard by the people ! Caius, in my heart 
Tbs)' have been deeply treasured. He must die, 
fThus didst thou speak,) this tyrant ! We have 

need 
That he should perish ! I have done the deed-; 
And calTst thou me his murderer ? If the blow 
Was guilt, ther t/iou art guilty. From thy 

lips 
Tht ssntence came — the crime is thine alonf*. 
[, thy devoted friend > did but obey 
Thy mandate. 

Caius. Thou my friend ! I am not one 
To call a villain friend. IjCt thunders, fraught 
With fate and death, awake to scatter those 
Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood, 
Bring chains ! — degrading Freedom's lofty self 
BeJcAf* e'en Slavery's level I Say thou not, 



Wretch ! that the sentence and the guilt werfi 

mine ! 
I wished him slain ! — 'tis so — but by the axe 
Of high and public justice — that whose stroke 
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgracv 
Unutterably my name : I bid thee tremble ! 

Fid. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee 
Let insult cease ! Be the deed just or guilt 
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not 
To utter more. 

Caius. And what hast thou to say ? 

Fill. That which I now suppress. 

Caius. How ! are there yet, 
Perchance, more crimes to be revealed ? 

Ful. I know not. 

Caius. Thou know'st not ? — Horror chills mj 
curdling veins ; 
I dare not ask thee further. 

Ful. Thou dost well. 

Caius. What saidst thou ? 

Ful. Nothing. 

Caius. On my heart the words 
Press heavily. O, what a fearful light 
Bursts o'er my soul ! — Hast thou accomplices \ 

Ful. Insensate ! ask me not. 

Caius. I must be told. 

Ful. Away ! — thou wilt repent. 

Caius. No more of this, for I will know. 

Ful. Thou wilt? 
Ask then thy sister. 

Caius, (alone.) Ask my sister ! "What ! 
Is she a murderess ? Hath my sister slain 
Her lord ? O, crime of darkest dye ! O, name 
Till now unstained, name of the Gracchi, thus 
Consigned to infamy ! — to infamy ? 
The very hair doth rise upon my head. 
Thrilled by the thought ! Where shall I find a 

place 
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains 
From this dishonored brow ? What should I do ' 
There is a voice whose deep, tremendous tones 
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, 
" Away ! — and pause not — slay thy guilt) 

sister ! " 
Voices of lost honor, of a noble line 
Disgraced, I will obey thee ! — terribly 
Tnou caU'st for blood, and tl ou shalt be r.?- 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE 
ITALIAN POETS. 

Whoevei-. has attentively studied the wurk. 
j of the Italian ooets, from the days of Dante aii« 



rATHIOTIC EFFUSIONS. 



19J 



Petravoh to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, 
must have been struck with those allusions to 
^he glory and the fall, the renown and the deg- 
radation, of Italy, which give a melancholy in- 
terest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes 
oJ that devoted country, the warning voice of 
hex bards has still been heard to prophesy the 
impending storm, and to call up such deep and 
spiiit-stirring recollections from the glorious past, 
as have resounded through the land, notwith- 
ttanding the loudest tumults of those discords 
which have made her 

" Long, long, a bloody stage 
For petty kinglings tame, 
Their miserable game 
Of puny war to wage." 

There is something very affecting in these 
rain, though exalted aspirations after that inde- 
pendence which the Italians, as a nation, seem 
destined never to regain. The strains in which 
their high-toned feelings on this subject are re- 
corded, produce on our minds the same effect 
with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose 
melody is fraught, in our imagination, with rec- 
ollections of the green woodland, the free air, 
and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of 
the perpetual violets and zephyrs, whose cloying 
sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of 
the minor Italian poets, till we are ready to "die 
in aromatic pain ; " nor is our interest much more 
excited even by the everlasting laurel which in- 
spires the enamoured Petrarch with so ingenious 
a variety of concetti^ as might reasonably cause 
it to be doubted whether the beautiful I^aura, or 
the emblematic tree, are the real object of the 
bard's affection ; but the moment a patriotic 
chord is struck, our feelings are awakened, and 
we find it easy to sympathize with the emotions 
of a modern Roman surrounded by the ruins 
of the Capitol ; a Venetian Avhen contemplating 
the proud trophies won by his ancestors at By- 
ymtium ; or a Florentine amongst the tombs of 
the mighty dead in the church of Santa Croce. 
It is not, perhaps, now the time to plead, with 
any effect, the cause of Italy ; yet cannot we 
coiiaj.der that nation as altogether degraded, 
whose litdririTB; from the dawn of it* majestic 
immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture 
of every generous principle and ennobling rec- 
ollection ; and whose "choice and master spir- 
its," imder the most adverse circumstances, have 
tept alive a flame which may well be considered 
^s imperishable, since the "ten thousand ty- 
fants" of the land ha e failed to quench its 



brightness. We present our readers with a feA\ 
of the minor effusions, in which the indignan 
though unavailing regrets of those who, to use 
the words of Alficri, are <* slaves, yet stiL induj- 
nant slaves," ^ have been feelingly portrayed. 

The first of these productions must, in the 
original, be familiar to every reader who h:"; 
any acquaintance with Italian literature 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

When from the mountain's brow the gathering 
shades 
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwe^l 
Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades 

Nor bids the universe at once farewell. 
But thou, I cry, my country ! what a night 
Spreads o'er thy glories one dark, sweepir.g 
pall! 
Thy thousand triumphs, won by valor's might 
And wisdom's voice — what now remains c 
all? 
And seest thou not th' ascending flame of war 
Burst through thy darkness, reddening fton 
afar ? 
Is not thy misery's evidence complete r 
But if endurance can thy fall delay. 
Still, still endure, devoted one ! and say, 
If it be victory thus but to retard defeat. 



CARLO MARIA MAGGI. 

I CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep. 
And blue Tyrrhene ! Let him first rouser: 
from sleep 

Startle the next ! one peril broods o'er all. 

It nought avails that Italy should plead. 
Forgetting valor, sinking in despair. 
At strangers' feet ! — our land is all too fair ; 

Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's 



In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye. 
For pardon sue ; 'tis not her agony, 

Her death alone may now appease her foes. 
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun ! 
But O, M-eak pride ! thus feeble and undone, 

Nor to wage battle nor endure repose ! 

1 " Schiavi siam, maschiaviognorlrementi. '— AtriER 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



aLESSANDRO MARCHETTI. 

Italia ! O, no more Italia now ! 

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear ; 
She was a queen with glory mantled — thou 

A slave, degraded, and compelled to bear. 

Chains gird thy hands and feet ; deep clouds 
of care 
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies ; 

And shadows, born of terror and despair — 
Shadows of death have dimmed thy glorious eyes. 
Italia ! O, Italia now no more ! 

For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow ; 
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour 

Are changed to dirge notes ; but my deepest 
woe 
Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while 
Beholc"" thy miseries with insulting smile. 



ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI. 

She that cast down the empires of the world. 
And, in her proud, triumphal course through 
Rome, 
Dragged them, from freedom and dominion 
hurled. 
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'er- 
come ; 
I see her now, dismantled of her state. 

Spoiled of her sceptre, crouching to the ground 
Beneath a hostile car — and lo ! the weight 

Of fetters her imperial neck around ! 
that a stranger's envious hands had wrought 

This desolation ! for then I would say, 
* Vengeance, Italia ! " — in the burning thought 

Losing my grief ; but 'tis th' ignoble sway 
If vice hath bowed thee ! Discord, slothful 

ease — 
^Tietrs is that victor car ; thy tyrant lords are 
tnese. 



FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI. 

THE SHORE OF AFRICA. 

Pilgrim ! whose steps those desert sands explore, 
Where verdure never spreads its bright array ; 

Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore 

From Pompey's heart the lifoblood ebbed 

away. 
'Twas here, betrayed, he fell — neglected lay, 

Vor found his relics a sepulchral stone, 



Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, 
O'er Tiber's wave supreme in glory shone ! 
Thou, stranger ! if from barbarous climes thj 

birth. 
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth 

Where Rome, with him, saw power and ■virtue 
die ; 
But if 'tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, 
Then, son of heroes ! think upon thy chains^ 

And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. 



JEU-D'ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB." 

[" It was eitlier during the present or a future visit to the 
same friends,i that ihejeu-ir esprit was produced which Mrs. 
Hemans used to call her ' sheet of forgeries ' on the use ol 
the word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to fumi:-h 
hira with some authorities from the old English writers, 
proving that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She 
very shortly supplied him with the following imitations, 
which were written down almost irr-promptu : the mystifi- 
cation succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until som# 
time afterwards." Memoir, p. 43.] 

The warrior donned his well-worn garb, 

And proudly waved his crest ; 
He mounted on his jet-black harb^ 

And put his lance in rest. 

Percy's Reliques. 

Eftsoons the wight, -withouten rr.ore delay, 
Spurred his brown barb, and rode full awiftly on 
his way. Spenser. 

Hark ! was it not the trumpst's voice I heard ? 
The soul of battle is awake within me ! 
The fate of ages and of empires hangs 
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms ? 
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed ! 
Base, idle grooms ! are ye in league against me? 
Haste with my barb, or, by the holy saints. 
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow ! 

Massixger. 

No sooner had the pearl- shedding fingern ol 
the young Aurora tremulously unlocked the 
oriental portals of the golden horizon, than the 
graceful flower of chivalry and the bright cyno- 
sure of ladies' eyes — he of the dazzling breast- 
plate and swanlike plume — sprang impatiently 
from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted 
the noble barb presented to him by the Emperoi 
of Aspramontania. 

Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. 

1 The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., WaveitrM 
Lodge, near Liverpool. 



THE FEVER DREAM. 



194 



Reest thou yon chief whose presence seems to 

rule 
Thr storm of battle ? Lo ! where'er he moves 
Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest — 
Fate on his sword is throned — and his white 

barb, 
As a proud courser of Apollo's chariot, 
'^eems breathing lire. Potter's Mschylus. 

O, bonnie looked my ain true knight, 

His barb so proudly reining ; 
I watched him till my tearfu' sight 

Grew amaist dim wi' straining. 

Border Minstrelsy. 

Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery 
barb, as well as any gallant in Christendom. 
He's the very pink and mirror of accomplish- 
ment. Shakspeare. 

Fair star of beauty's ?ieaven ! to call thee mine, 

All other joys I joyously would yield ; 
My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign, 
For the poor shepherd's crook and daisied 
field; 
For courts or camps no wish my soul would 

prove. 
So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love ! 
Earl of Surrey's Poems. 

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown 
Heedless of youthful sports : I seek no more 

Or joyous dance, or music's thrilling tone, 
Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore, 

Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet. 

Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty's 
feet. Shakspe are's Sonnets. 

As a warrior clad 
In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad. 

But mounted on a barb as white 

As the fresh new-born light, — 

So the black night too soon 
Came riding on the bright and silver moon. 

Whose radiant heavenly ark 
Made all the clouds beyond her influence seem 

E'en more than doubly dark. 
Mourning, all widowed of her glorious beam. 

Cowley. 



THE FEVER DREAM. 

[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved 
of Mrs. Hemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote 
with any other view than the momentary amusement of her 
25 



own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time 
to her sister, who was then travelling in Italy. 'D e follow 
ing extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her 
facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely 
disconthmed. The first part allunts to a strange fancy i,ru 
duced by an attack of fever, the description of wliich h.u' 
given ri.se to many pleasantries — being an imaginarj' vi>y 
age to China, performed in a coco.vnut shell with tha' 9nii 
nent old English worthy, John Evelyn. ) 

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if yua please, 
Some account of the converse you lield on higl 

seas 
With Evelyn, the excellent author of " Sylva," 
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa 
I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er 
In so well-rigged a ship, by so well-matched a 

pair. 
There could not have fallen, dear H., to youi 

lot any 
Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of 

botany, 
And his horticultural talents are known, 
Just as well as Canova's for fashioning stone. 

Of the vessel you sailed in, I just will remarl' 
That I ne'er heard before of so curious a bark. 
Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe, 
I have read very often, as doubtless have you : 
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason 
Of the ship moored by Trajan in Nemi's dctp 

basin ; 
Of the galley (in Plutarch, you'll find the de- 
scription) 
Which bore along Cydnus, the royal Egyptian ; 
Of that wonderful frigate (see " Curse of Ke- 

hama") 
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama. 
And the venturous barks of Columbus and 

Gama. 
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a 
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to 

China, 
(I'm astonished no shocking disaster befell,) 
In that swift-sailing first-rate — a cocoa-nut 
shell! 

I hope, my dear H., that you toxiched at L..o 

Choo, 
That abode of a people so gentle and true. 
Who with arms and with money haTe nothinj; 

to do. 
How calm must their lives be ! so free from ^l' 

fears 
Of running in debt, or of rtinning on spears ! 
O dear ! what an Eden ! — a land without money ' 
It excels e'en the region of milk and of hone?, 



i94 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a bock 
Full of musk, gems, and roses, and called •* Lalla 
Rookh." 

But, of all the enjoyments you have, none 

■would e'er be 
More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, 
Of whose travels — related in elegant phrases — 
I kave seen many extracts, and heard many 

praises, 
ILnd have copied (you know I let nothing es- 
cape) 
His striking account of the frozen North Cape. 
I think 'twas in his works I read long ago 
(I've not the best memory for dates, as you 

know) 
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were 

stored, 
Which took fire (I suppose being made but of 

board) 
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero. 
Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. 
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out. 
And in streams, just like lava, meandered about. 
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, 
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. 
When my first for a moment had hardened my 

last, 
My second burst out, and all melted as fast ; 
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on. 
But I quite forget which of the elements won. 

But a truce with all joking — I hope you'll 

excuse me. 
Since I know you still love to instruct and 

amuse me. 
For hastily putting a few questions down. 
To which answers from you all my wishes will 

crown ; 
For you know I'm so fond of the land of Co- 

rinne 
Tliat my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts 

within. 
And 1 read all that authors, or gravely or wit- 
tily, 
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy ; 
From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old 

tour. 
To Forsyth's 07ie volume, and Eustace's four^ 
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances 
A.t the classical Eustace, and says he romances. 
— Pray describe me from Venice, (don't think 

it a bore,) 
The literal state of the famed Biicentaur, 



And whether the horses, that once were tk« 

sun's. 
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dlng> 

bronze ; 
For some travellers say one thing, and some sa-j 

another, 
And I can't find out which, they all make such 

a pother. 
O, another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, 
Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not! 
These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow, 
For Venice must interest all — even now. 

These points being settled, I ask for no m:r« 
hence, 
But should wish for a few observations from 

Florence. 
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti 
Are finished ; if not, 'tis a shame for the city 
To let one for ages — was e'er such a thing ? — 
Its entablature want, and the other its wing. 
Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at 

Easter, 
And watch her swift flight, when the priest: 

have released her) 
Is a turtle, or ring dove, or but a wood-Y^geon, 
Which makes people gulls in the name of Re- 
ligion ? 
Pray tell if the forests of famed f allombrosa 
Are cut down or not ; for this, too, is a Cosa 
About which I'm anxious — as also to know 
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago. 
Came back (above all, don't forget this to men- 
tion) 
To that manuscript library called tne Laurentian 

Since I wrote the above, I by chance have 
found out. 

That the horses are bright yellow brass ;5eyond 
doubt ; 

So I'U ask you but this, the same subject pur- 
suing. 

Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing i 

— When to Naples you get, let me know, if 
you will, 

If the Acqua Tofi'ana's in fashion there still ; 

For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity 

'Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. 

I should Hke to have also, and not written shab- 
bily. 

Your opinion about the Piscina mirdhile , 

And whether the tomb, which is neai Sann» 
zaro's, 

Is decided by you to be really Maro'a- 



DARTMOOR. 



Svi 



DARTMOOR. 

A PRIZE POEM. 

[In 1890, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention of awarding a prize for the best poem on " Dan 
moor; " and, as might have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the followhig June, the palip wa» 
awarded to Mrs. Heraans for the composition which follows. 
She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her the pleasing intelligence of her success: — 
" What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the chile* 

ft hen tLe prize was announced to them yesterday Tiie Bishop's kind communication ptit ihs it 

possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive t\ \ 
Sr retary's letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private 
letter, with which, altliough it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my literary success 
which, from so distuiguished a writer as Mr. Croly, (of course you liave read his poem of Pari;i,) cannot but be highlj 
gratifying."] 

" Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime. 
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore. 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore." Campbeu* 

" May ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 
That can perceive, not less than heretofore 
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, 

the charm 

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar. 

And human charity, and social love." Wordsworth. 



A.MIDST the peopled and the regal isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile ; 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, 
And send on every breeze a voice of poAver ; 
Hath Desolation reared herself a throne, 
And marked a pathless region for her own ? 
Yes ! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore ; 
Though not a hostile step thy heath flowers bent 
When empires tottered, and the earth was rent ; 
Yet lone Jis if some trampler of mankind 
Har stilled life's busy murmurs on the wind, 
A-nd, flushed with power in daring pride's excess, 
Stamped on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in -rain descend the dews of heaven, 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given, 
Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, 'midst thy moun- 
tains rude, 
Hast ro])ed thyself with haughty solitude. 
As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, 
A mourner circled with festivity ! 
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea, 
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare 
But man has left his lingering traces there ! 
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains. 
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 
tn gloom and silence fearfully profound, 
A-s of a world unwaked to soul or sound. 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
Feels, a? amidst infinity, a] one. 



And nought of life be near, his camel's treau 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, reared by long-forgotten hands, 
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates thf 

scene, 
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of the mighty passed, 
Not without record ; though the desert blast, 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept awa> 
The proud creations reared to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region ! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, 
Who shall unfold thine annals ? — Avho shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell, 
In those far ages which have left no trace, 
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race ? 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs who passed without theii 

praise. 
Thou raightst have reared the valiant and the frcs, 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. 

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the -wilil 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled,' 

1 " In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly 
strewed with stones, which in many instances appear t« 
have been collected into piles, on the tops of prominent hi' 
locks, as if in imitation of the natural Tors. The Stoi/i 
barrows of Dartmoor resemble the cainis of the Cheviot aiic 
Grampian Hills, and those in Cornwall." — See Cooke' 
Topographical Survey of Devonshire. 



i96 



DARTMOOK. 



But hallowed by that instinct which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
Bowed many a crest, and shattered many a 

throne, 
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust. 
With what they hide — their shrined and treas- 
ured dust. 
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her 

mould ; 
But still these nameless chronicles of death, 
Midst the deep silence of th' unpeopled heath. 
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature with the forms 
Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of 
thr storms. 

Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep. 
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath ? 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest. 
Thus rudely pillowed, on the desert's breast ? 
Doth the sword sleep beside them ? Hath there 

been 
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene 
Where no v the flocks repose ? — did the scythed 

car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war ? 
And rise these piles in memory of the slain. 
And the red combat of the mountain plain ? 

It may be thus : — the vestiges of strife, 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell * 
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride, 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, and 

died.2 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere. 
The eternal stars of night have witnessed 

here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,' 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, 

1 Flijil arrow head? have occasionally been found upon 
;)artmoor. 

2 *' Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Multi ; sed onines illachryinabiles 
Urgentur, ignotique longSL 
Nocte, careiit quia vate sacro." — Horace. 
"They had no poet, and they died." — Pope's Transla- 
von. 
8 On 1' « east o' Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one 



Propped on its granite pillars, whence th« 

rains 
And pure, bright dews have laved the crimsoa 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood ; for here, of yore, 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore. 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low, 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe — 
Here, at dim midnight, through the hauntfeo 

shade. 
On Druid harps the quivering moonbeam played^ 
And spells were breathed, that filled the deep- 
ening gloom 
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night 
Bade the red cairn fires blaze from every height,^ 
Like battle signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies. 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war gods of th« 
North. 

But wilder sounds were there — th' imploring 

cry 
That woke the forest's echo in reply. 
But not the heart's ! Unmoved the wizard 

train 
Stood round their human victim, and in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose ; in vain his glance 
Looked up, appealing to the blue expanse. 
Where in their calm immortal beauty shone * 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter 

moan. 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebbed away; 
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red. 
And the pale moon gleamed paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, and here ? — where gtUl 

ness dwells 
'Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells. 
Thus undisturbed ? O, long the gulf of time 
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of crime, 
And earth no vestige of their path retains, 
Save such as these, which strew her lonelies* 

plains 

of which is a Cromlech, whose Jiree rough pillars of granite 
support a ponderous table stone, and form a kind of Iarg« 
irregular tripod. 

•4 In some of the Dniid festivals, fires were lighted on al' 
the cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred 
torches. All the household fires were previously extin- 
guished, and those who were thought worthy of such f 
privilege were allowed to relight them witli a flamin* 
brfnd, kindled at the consecrated cairn fire 



DARTMOOR. 



1G1 



With records of man's conflicts and his doom, 
His spirit and his dust — the altar and the tomb. 

But ages rolled away ; and England stood 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood; 
A.nd with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
""^o breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
And other lands, redeemed and joyous, drank 
The lifeblood of her heroes, as they sank 
On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Nov* in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave. 

'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war ' 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar 
In bondage pined ; the spell-deluded throng 
Dragged at ambition's chariot wheels so long 
To die — because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp ! 

Yes ! they whose march hath rocked the an- 
cient thrones 
And temples of the world — the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes — 
Were prisoners here. And there Avere some 

whose dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain 

streams. 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine ; 
And of those mothers who had watched and wept, 
When on the field th' unsheltered conscript 

slept, 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some 

were there 
Of sterner spirits, hardened by despair ; 
Who, in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, 
Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 

And there was mirth, too ! — strange and sav- 
age mirth. 

More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! 

The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that 
spring 

From minds for which there is no sacred thing ; 

A.nd transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee — 

The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 

1 The Frernh prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, 
» ".re c ofined in a deoot on Dartmoor. 



But still, howe'er the soul's disguise wen 
worn. 
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — wof. 

Yet, was this all ? Amidst the dungeon gloom, 
The void, the stillness of the captive's dooin, 
Were there no deeper thoughts ? A nd that 

dark power 
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, 
The mighty debt through years of crime delayed, 
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid ; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls — Remorse r 

Yes ! as the knight calls forth from sea anci 
sky, 
From breeze and w^ood, a solemn harmony. 
Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day 
In light and sound are hurrying on theu* way . 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart. 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might 

start, 
Called up by solitude, each nerve to thrill 
With accents heard not, save when all is still ! 

The voice, inaudible when havoc's strain 
Crushed the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute when sierras to the war whoop rung, 
And the broad light of conflagration sprung 
From the south's marble cities ; hushed 'mid^, 

cries 
That told the heavens of mortal agonies ; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last 
In concentrated thunders of the past ! 

And there, perchance, some long-bewilderod 

mind, 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of \dllage duties, in the Alpine ^len. 
Where nature cast its lot 'midst peasant men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler tleu< 
The earthquake power of each wild element, 
To lend tl^ tide which bore his throne on high 
One impulse more of desperate energy ; 
Might — when the billow's awful rush was o'er 
Which tossed its wreck upoc the storm-beal 

shore. 
Won from its wanderings past, by sufl'ering tried. 
Searched by remorse, by anguish purified — 
Have fixed, at length, its troubled hopes an^ 

fears 
On the far world, seen brightest ttjougb ou 

tears ; 



,98 



DARTMOOR. 



/\jjd, in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn — but none declaic, 
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense 
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, 
Have turned to Him whose bow is in the cloud, 
A.round life's limits gathering as a shroud — 
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, 
4 nd, by the tempest, calls it to repose ! 

Who visited that death bed ? Who can tell 
[ts brief sad tale, on which the soul might 

dwell. 
And learn immortal lessons ? Who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt re- 
pelled — 
The agony of prayer — the bursting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty years, 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might ? 
He, through the storm who looked, and there 
was light ! 

That scene is closed — that wild, tumultuous 
breast, 
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest ! 
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife. 
Who woke those passions to delirious life ; 
And days, prepared a brighter course to run, 
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ; 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams. 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the 

mind, 
The warm and living spirit of mankind, 
Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted 

heart 
To life and hope from desolation start ! 
She with a look dissolves the captive's chain. 
Peopling with beauty widowed homes again ; 
A.round the mother, in her closing years, 
Gathering her sons once more, and from the 

tears 
Of the dim past but winning purer light, 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 
clime, 
In silence gliding with the stream of time, 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze 
v'/it,Ii }i«!aling on its wings, o'er isles and seas. 



And as Heaven's breath called forth, with genia 

power. 
From the dry wand the almond's living flowcR 
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; 
While round its pathway nature softly glows, 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the n-aste lift up th' exulting voice 
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor ! where no blithe reaper'! 

song 
E'er lightly sped the summer hours along. 
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain sour*, i 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
Thou whose sole records of existence mark 
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark. 
And of some nameless combat; hope's brighi 

eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture dressed. 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage smoke at dewy morn, 
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn, 
And 'midst thy hamlet shades, the imbosomed 

spire 
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest 

fire. 

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy 

close 
Of labor's day, the herald of repose, 
Which gathers hearts in peace ; while sociai 

mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth \ 
While peasant songs are on the joyous gales. 
And merry England's voice floats up from all 

her vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds ; and thou shalt 

hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. 
O, if there still be melody on earth 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew 

birth, 
When angel steps their paths rejoicing trod, 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky ' 
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, 
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 

sprung. 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on iiifl 

tongue. 

1 In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great nationa 
school house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to e'liicaf 
the children of conv!ct,s. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



iy» 



And such shall be thy music, when the cells, 
Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, 

dwells, 
\^And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence. 
Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence, 
f5re that soft rose bloom of the soul be fled. 
Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead. 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A, glorious offering, meet for Him who said, 
" Mercy, not sacrifice ! " and, w^hen of old 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars rolled. 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! 

"When some crowned conqueror, o'er a tram- 
pled w^orld 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurled. 
And, like those visitations which deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere. 
Silence behind — before him, flight and fear ! 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing 

wheels, 
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels. 
And earth is moulded but by one proud will. 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still, 
Shall the free soid of song bow down to pay 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way ? 
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains ? 
And shall no harmony of softer close 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows. 
And, mingling with the murmur of its wave, 
Blesft lie green shores its gentle currents lave ? 



O, there are loftier themes, for him whose 3ye» 
Have searched the depths of life's reaHties, 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car, 
"Wheeling the monarch victor fast and far ; 
There are more noble strains than those whiz ^ 

swell 
The triumphs ruin may sufhce to tell ! 

Ye prophet bards, who sat in eider days 
Beneath the palms of Judah ! ye whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on 

high. 
Burst in the strength of immortality ! 
O, not alone, those haunted groves among, 
Of conquering hosts, of empires crushed, yt 

sung, 
But of that spirit destined to explore, 
With the bright dayspring, every distant shore, 
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed. 
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed ; 
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's 

gloom, 
And pour eternal starlight o'er the tomb 

And blessed and hallowed be its haunts ! for 

there 
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair ! 
There hath th' immortal spark for heaven been 

nursed ; 
There from the rock the springs of life have 

burst 
Quenchless and pure ! and holy thoughts, that 

rise 
Warm from the source of human sympathies — 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temple in the silent waste. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



THE HARP OF WALES. 

laT^ODUCTOET STAITZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE EUTHIN WELSH 
LITEEARY SOCIETY. 

[Iarp of the mountain land ! sound forth again 
As when the foaming Hirlas * horn was 
crowned, 
ki\^ warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, 
And the bright mead at Owain's feast went 
round : 

Hirlas. from Air, long, and glas, blue or azure. 



Wake with the spirit and the power of yore ! 
Harp of the ancient hills ! be heard once more 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Eomai 
came 
O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars : 
Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame 
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores 
All gave their ashes to the wind and sea — 
Ring out, thou harp ! he could not sileici 
thee. 



uUO 



WELSH MELODIES. 



Thy tones are not to cease ! The Saxon passed, 

His banners floated on Eryri's gales ; * 
But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast, 
E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the 
vales ! 
Thine was the voice that cheered the brave and 

free ; 
They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and 
thee. 

Those were dark years ! — They saw the valiant 
faU, 
The rank weeds gathering round the chief- 
tain's board. 
The hearth left lonely in the ruined haU — 

Yet power was thine — a gift in every chord ! 
Call back that spirit to the days of peace, 
Thou noble harp ! thy tones are not to cease ! 



DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING 
OF THE ROMANS. 

By the dread and viewless powers 

Whom the storms and seas obey, 
From the Dark Isle's ^ mystic bowers, 

Romans ! o'er the deep away ! 
lliink ye, 'tis but nature's gloom 

O'er our shadowy coast which broods ? 
By the altar and the tomb. 

Shun these haunted solitudes ! 

Know ye Mona's awful spells ? 

She the rolling orbs can stay ! 
She the mighty grave compels 

Back to yield its fettered prey ! 
Fear ye not the lightning stroke ? 

Mark ye not the fiery sky ? 
Hence ! — around our central oak 

Gods are gathering — Romans, fly ! 



THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.^ 

Where are they, those green fairy islands, re- 
posing • 
In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast ? 

1 Eryri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon Mountains. 

2 Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island — an ancient name for 
Anglesey. 

8 The " Green Islands of Ocean," or " Green Spots of 
Jie Floods," called in the Triads " Gwerddonan Llion," 
(respecting vhich some remarkable superstitions have been 
preset v^ed in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the 
Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not 
•liter tlie Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this 



What spirit, the things wh'ch are hidden dis- 
closing, 

Shall point the bright way to their dwellings oi 
rest? 

O, lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages 
The mighty have sought them, undaunted in 

faith ; 
But the land hath been sad for her warriore and 

sages. 
For the guide to those realms of the blessed is 

death. 

Where are they, the high-minded children of 

glory. 
Who steered for those distant green spots on 

the wave ? 
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild 

story. 
In the fields of their country they found net a 

grave. 

Perchance they repose where the summer breeze 

gathers 
From the flowers of each vale immortality's 

breath ; 
But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of 

their fathers — 
For the guide to those realms of the bless6d i* 

death. 



THE SEA SONG OF GAFRAN.* 

Watch ye well ! The moon is shrouded 

On her bright throne ; 
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded; 

Waves make wild moan. 
'Tis no night of hearth fires glowing. 
And gay songs and wine cups flowing ; 
But of winds, in darkness blowing 

O'er seas unknown ! 

In the dwellings of our fathers, 

Rotind the glad blaze, 
Now the festive circle gathers 

With harps and lays ; 

paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguisheu Britist chief 
tain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family 
to discover these islands ; but they were never heird o1 
afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin En)rjs w itl 
his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, weie crilled 
the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain — 
See W. O. Puohe's Cambrian Biography; aiso Cj/nJr* 
Briton, i. 124. 
4 See note to the " Green Isles of Ocean '* 



WELSH MELODIES. 



201 



Now tlie rush-strewn halls are ringing, 
Steps are bounding, bards are singing, 
- Ay ! the hour to all is bringing 
Peace, joy, or praise, — 

Save to us, our night watch keeping, 

Storm winds to brave, 
While the very sea bird sleeping 

Rests in its cave ! 
Think of us when hearths are beaming, 
Think of us when mead is streaming, 
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming 

On the dark wave ! 



THE HIRLAS HORN. 

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the 
wave * 
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of 
the sea ; 
A.nd bear thou the rich foaming mead to the 
brave. 
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free ! 
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the 
fight, 
A beam, like heaven's lightning,^ flashed over 
the field ; 
To those who came rushing as storms in their 
might, 
Who have shivered the helmet, and cloven 
the shield ; 
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar. 
When lances were red from the harvest of war. 

Fill high the blue hirlas ! O cup-bearer, fill 

For the lords of the field in their festival's hour, 
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill 

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its 
power : 
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth 
horn 

Of honor and mirth,^ for the conflict is o'er ; 
And round let the golden-tipped hirlas be borne 

To the lion defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore. 
Who rushed to the field where the glory was won, 
As eagles that soar from their cliff's to the sun. 

1 " Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose 
floss is like the waves of the sea ; whose green handles show 
the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold." — From the 
Uirlas Horn of Owain Cyfeilioq. 

2 " Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din 
'»f arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, 
where fire flashed out of their spears ? " — From the same 

3 "Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn — badge of honor 
ind lanirUi." — From the same. 

26 



Fill higher the hirlas ! forgetting not those 
Who shared its bright draught in the daya 
which are fled ! 
Though cold on their mountains the valiant 
repose. 
Their lot shall be lovely — renown to the dead! 
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be 
strung. 
While regal Eryri with snow shall be crowned, 
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, 
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the 
sound. 
The free winds of Maelor ^ shall swell with theii 

name. 
And Owain's rich hirlas be filled to their fame. 



THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN. 

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night ; ' 
I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light ; 
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er. 
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome p< 
more ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still ; 
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill 1 
Be silent forever, thou desolate scene, 
Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare ; 
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there ! 
O, where are the warriors who circled its board I 
— The grass wiU soon wave where the mead 

cup was poured ! 
The Hall of CjTiddylan is loveless to-night. 
Since he is departed whose smile made it bright ! 
I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief : 
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief 

4 JNIaelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, ao 
cording to the modern division. 

5 " The Hall of Cynddylan is glooniy this night, 

Without fire, without bed — 

I must weep a while, and then be silent. 

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night. 
Without fire, without being lighted — 
Be thou encircled with spreading silence ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, 
Since he that owned it is no more — 
Ah Death ! it will be but a short time he will lean^ 
me. 

The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this nighi. 
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, 
Witliout its lord, without company, without the oil 
cling feaats ! " 

Owen'» Heroic Ele tries of Llywarr.h Hen 



t02 



WELSH MELODIES. 



THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. 

[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard 
md chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, sup- 
posed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having 
sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of 
most of his sons, in the unequal contest mamtained by the 
North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, 
Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek 
refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time 
in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall 
ne pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still 
extant ; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons is 
remarkable for its simplicity and beauty. — See Cambrian 
Biography, and Owen's Heroic Elegies and other Poems of 
Llywarch Hen.] 

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is 

ringing 
With song, and the hills are all mantled with 

bloom ; 
But fairer than aught which the summer is 

bringing, 
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! 
0, why should I live to hear music resounding. 
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave ? 
Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps 

surrounding ? 

— My sons ! they but clothe the green turf of 

your grave ! 

Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, 
My spirit all wrapped in the past as a dream ! 
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,^ 
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad 

beam ; 
^Tet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping ! 

— O grave ! why refuse to the aged thy bed, 
When valor's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping. 
When youth's glorious flower is gone down to 

the dead ! 

Fair were ye, my sons ! and all kingly your 

bearing, 
As on to the fields of your glory ye trod ! 
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain 

wearing, 
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the 

sod!« 
t we'-p when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, 
Which rouces ye not, O my lonely ! my brave ! 

1 " What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me 
low." 

2 " Four and twenty sons to me have been 

Wearing tlie golden chain, and leading princes." 
Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 
The golden chain, as a badge of honor, worn by heroes. 



When warriors and chiefs to their proud steexli 

are bounding, 
I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on y<»' 

grave I ^ 



GRUFYDD'S FEAST. 

[•' Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the Eng 
lish successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained 
from them an honorable peace, made a great feast at his 
palace m Ystrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To this feast, 
which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would 
come in peace from Owynedd, Powys, the Deheiibarth, Gla- 
morgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he 
prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors ; with 
every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song ; thus 
patronizing the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, 
all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards 
sent away all those who had excelled in them with bono" 
able gifts." — Cambrian Biography.] 

Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the 

brave. 
By the bright festal torches around us that wave ! 
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall, 
And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the 

wall! 
There is peace in the land we have battled 

to save : 
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine cup foam 

high,* 
That those may rejoice who have feared not to 

die! 

Let the horn whose loud blast ga-ve the signal 

for fight, 
With the bees' sunny nectar now sparkle ii? 

light; 5 
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be 

crowned. 
For the strong hearts in combat that leaped at 

its sound ! 
Like the billows' dark swell was the path of 

their might. 
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine cup oe 

high. 
That those may rejoice who have feared not ta 

die! 

is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient Britisk 
bards. 

3 " Hardly has the snow covered the vale. 

When the warriors are hastening to the battl« 
I do not go, I am hindered by infirmity." 

Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 

4 Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in titu 
poems of the ancient British bards. 

5 The horn was used for two purposes — to sound tin 
alarm in war, and to drink the mead at feasts. 



WEL.^'iI MELODIES. 



20i 



Ajid wake ye the children of song from their 

dreams, 
On Maelor's Mvild hills and by Dyfed's fair 

streams ! * 
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty 

and free, 
SVLich shall flow down the waves of long ages 

to be. 
Sheathe the sword which hath given them 

imperishing themes, 
A.nd pour the bright mead: let the wine cup 

foam liigh, 
I'hat tl^ose may rejoice who have feared not to 

^! 



THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. 

When the last flush of eve is dying 

(jn boundless lakes afar that shine ; 
When winds amidst the palms are sighing, 

And fragrance breathes from every pine ; ' 
Wlien stars through cypress boughs are gleam- 
ing, 

And fireflies wander bright and free, 
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, 

My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee ! 

AloBie o'er green savannas roving, 

Where some broad stream in silence flows, 
Or through th' eternal forests moving, 

One only home my spirit knows ! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath j.-arted! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier could the weary-hearted 

Look on his own blue hills and die ! 



TALIESIN'S PROPHECY. 

[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient I itons is 
Btill extant, and has been strikingly verified. It iu tt the 
following effect: — 

" Their God they shall worship, 
Their language they shall retain, 
Their land they shall lose, 
Except wild Wales."3 

A voics from time departed yet floats thy hills 

among, 
Cambria ! thus thy prophet bard, thy 1 aliesin 

sung : 

1 Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with s» earns of 
H'ater,) the modem Pembrokeshire. 
8 The aromatic odor of the pine has frequently b 5en men- 
by travellers. 



" The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soal 

The clouds which mantle things unseen awaj 
before me roll, 

A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spiril 
passed, 

A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful 
in the blast, 

And tells me that forever shall live the lofty 
tongue 

To which the harp of Mona's woods by free- 
dom's hand was strung. 

** Green island of the mighty ! ^ I see thine 

ancient race 
Driven from their fathers' realm to make the 

rocks their dwelling-place ! 
I see from Uthyr's * kingdom the sceptre pass 

away, 
And many a Kne of bards, and chiefs, and prince- 
ly men decay. 
But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift theii 

sovereign forms. 
And wear the crown to which is given dominion 

o'er the storms. 
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty 

tongue 
To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's 

hand was strung ! " 



OWEN GLYNDWR'S WAR SONG. 

Saw ye the blazing star ? ^ 

The heavens looked down on freedom's war, 

And lit her torch on high ! 
Bright on the dragon crest ^ 
It tells that glory's wing shall rest, 

When warriors meet to die ' 

Let earth's pale tyrants read despair 
And vengeance in its flame ; 

3 Ynys y Cedcim, or Isle of the Mighty — an ancient nami 
given to Britain. 

4 Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to hav« 
been the father of Arthur. 

6 The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazmg 
strr, which the bards interpreted as an omen favorable to 
the cause of Glendwr. It served to infuse spirit into the 
minds of a superstitious people ; the first success of th^ii 
chief'ain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigor to theii 
actions. — Pennant. 

6 Owen Glendwr styled himself the Dragon ; a name he 
assumed in imitation of Uthyr, whose victories over th« 
Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with i 
dragon beneath, which Uthyr used as his badge ; and oi 
that account it became a favorite on j with the Welsh- •• 

PSNNANT. 



204 



WELSH MELODIES. 



Hail ye, my bards ! the omen fair 

Of conquest and of fame, 
And swell the rushing mountain air 

With songs to Glendwr's name. 

At the dead hour of night. 

Marked ye how each majestic height 

Burned in its awful beams ? 
Red shone th' eternal snows, 
And all the land, as bright it rose, 

Was full of glorious dreams ! 
O eagles of the battle,^ rise ! 

The hope of Gwynedd^ wakes ! 
It is your banner in the skies 

Through each dark cloud which breaks, 
And mantles with triumphal dyes 

Your thousand hills and lakes ! 

A sound is on the breeze, 

A murmur as of swelling seas ! 

The Saxon on his way ! 
Lo ! spear, and shield, and lance. 
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance. 

Reflected to the day ! 
But who the torrent wave compels 

A conqueror's chain to bear ? 
Let those who wake the soul that dwells 

On our free winds beware ! 
The greenest and the loveliest dells 

May be the lion's lair ! 

Of us they told, the seers, 

And monarch bards of elder years. 

Who walked on earth as powers ! 
And in their burning strains, 
A spell of might and mystery reigns, 

To guard our mountain towers ! 
— In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay : * 

Before his gifted sight. 
The march of ages passed away 

With hero footsteps bright ; 
But proudest in that long array 

Was Glendwr's path of light ! 



PRINCE MADOC'S FAREWELL. 

Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day 
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep ? 

Too fair is the sight for a wanderer, whose way 
Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of the deep ! 

1 " Bring the horn to Tudvvrou, the Eagle of Battles." — 
See the Hirlas Horn of Owain Cyfeiliog. The eagle is a 
»erj' favorite image with the ancient Welsh poets. 

■^ Gvvynedd, (pronounced (iwyneth,) North Wales. 
Merlin, or Merddin Emry • >s said to have composed his 



Fall, shadows of twilight ! and. veil the greet 

shore, 
That the heart of the mighty may waver no more ! 

Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the 

land 
Where the harp's lofty soul en each wild wind 

is borne ? 
Be hushed, be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the hand 

Of minstrel with melody greet my return. 
— No ! no ! — let your echoes stiU float on the 

breeze. 
And my heart shall be strong for the conquest 

of seas ! 

'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth 
Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial i* 
nigh; 
Aw^ay ! we will bear over ocean and earth 
A name and a spirit that never shall die. 
My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign ; 
But my soul's quenchless fire, O my country ! 
is thine. 



CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH. 

[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme 
comm-"id of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the 
purpose of opposing Caesar, under the title of Elected Chief 
of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined lesions of 
Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, 
the subsequent departure of Caesar they considered as n cauise 
of triumph ; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaiiued an 
assembly of the various states of the island, for the purposo 
of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejtiicing. 
Cambrian Biography.] 

From the glowing southern regions, 

Where the sun god makes his dwelling. 

Came the Roman's crested legions 

O'er the deep, round Britain swelling, 

The wave grew dazzling as he passr 1, 

With light from spear and helmet cast ; 

And sounds in every rushing blast 
Of a conqueror's march were telling. 

But his eagle's royal pinion, 
Bowing earth beneath its glory. 

Could not shadow with dominion 
Our wild seas and mountains hoary ! 

prophecies on the future lot of the Britons, amongst tu 
mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient 
prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to his own cause, 
and assisted him greatly in aiiiinating the spirit of liif 
followers. 



AVELSH MELODIES. 



20» 



Back from their cloudy realm it flies, 
To float in light through softer skies ; 
O, chainless winds of heaven, arise ! 
Bear a vanquished world the story ! 

Lords of earth ! to Rome returning, 
Tell how Britain combat wages. 

How Caswallon's soul is burning 
When the storm of battle rages ! 

And ye thit shrine high deeds in song, 

O holy ai? d immortal throng ! 

The brightness of his name prolong, 
As a torch to stream through ages ! 



HOWEL'S SONG. 

[HowEL ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard o 
llie fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by 
him to Myfanvvy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, 
is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. 
The ruins of Myfanwy's residence, Castle Dinas Brin, may 
yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.] 

Pkess on, my steed ! I hear the swell ^ 
Of Yalle Crucis' vesper bell. 
Sweet floating from the holy dell 

O'er woods and waters round. 
Perchance the maid I love, e'en now, 
From Dinas Bran's majestic brow. 
Looks o'er the fairy world below. 

And listens to the sound ! 

1 feel her presence on the scene ! 
The summer air is more serene. 
The deep woods wave in richer green. 
The wave more gently flows ! 

fair as ocean's curling foam ! ^ 
Lo ! with the balmy hour I come — 
The hour that brings the wanderer home. 

The weary to repose ! 

Haste ! on each mountain's darkening crest 
The glow hath died, the shadows rest ; 
The twilight star on Deva's breast 
Gleams tremulously bright ; 

1 " I have rode hard, mounted on a fine, high-bred steed, 
*pca Uiy account, O thoti with the countenance of cherry- 
uower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong 
long hanim'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the high 
land of Bran." 

2 " My loving heart sinks with grief without thy sup- 
port, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves ! 

. . . . I know that this pain will avail me nothing 
Ic wards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is 
•right as the flowers of the hawthorn ! " — Howel's Ode to 
Vyfanvru 



Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high ! 
Though scorn may wound me from her eye^ 
O, better by the sun to die. 
Than live in rayless night ! 



THE MOUNTAIN FIRES. 

[" The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Cotlctr 
thi) on November eve is said to be a traditional memorial 
of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salis- 
bury Plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and 
had reference originally to the Jllban Elved, or new year." 
— Cambro-Briton. 

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen 
through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and 
fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly 
picturesque.] 

Light the hills ! till heaven is glowing 

As with some red meteor's rays ! 
Winds of night, though rudely blowing, 

Shall but fan the beacon blaze. 
Light the hills ! till flames are streaming 

From Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep,' 
To the waves round Mona gleaming. 

Where the Roman tracked the deep ! 

Be the mountain watchfires heightened, 

Pile them to the stormy sky ! 
Till each torrent wave is brightened, 

Kindling as it rushes by. 
Now each rock, the mist's high dwelli»«. 

Towers in reddening light sublime ; 
Heap the flames ! around them telling 

Tales of Cambria's elder time. 

Thus our sires, the fearless hearted. 

Many a solemn vigil kept. 
When, in ages long departed. 

O'er the noble dead they wept. 
In the winds we hear their voices — 

*• Sons ! though yours a brighter lot, 
When the movmtain land rejoices. 

Be her mighty unforgot ! " 



ERYRI WEN. 

[" Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancv^t Britons, aa 
Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the C?»tans. It ii 
still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon ivould wak« 
inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on tl>e hill of 
Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest att#t.\suent to 
the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition V' Iheii 
title, that of Lord of Snowdon." — Pennant.] 

Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, 
With heaven's own azure crowned ! 

3 Yr Wyddfa,the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to tieai 

the conspicuous place, or object. 



206 



WELSH MELODIES. 



Who called thee — what thou shalt be still, 
White Snowdon ! - holy ground. 

They fabled not, thy sons who told 

Of the dread power enshiined 
Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, 

And on thy rushing wind ! 

It sliadowed o'er thy silent height, 

It filled thy chainless air, 
Dfcp thoughts of majesty and might 

I'orevcr breathing there. 

Nor hath it fled ! the awful spell 

Yet holds unbroken sway. 
As when on that wild rock it fell 

Where Merddin Emrys lay.^ 

Though from their stormy haunts of yore 

Thine eagles long have flown,' 
As proud a flight the soul shall soar 

Yet from thy mountain throne ! 

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams ! 

And make the snows thy crest ! 
The sunlight of immortal dreams 

Around thee still shall rest. 

Eryri ! temple of the bard ! 

And fortress of the free ! 
'Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, 

Their spirit dwells with thee ! 



CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR 
MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.^ 

Raise ye the sword ! let the death stroke be 

given ! 
0, swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven ! 

1 Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated 
rock amongst the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so 
sailed from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, 
called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosias, the celebrated 
|*-ophet and magician ; and there, tradition says, he wrote 
liis prophecies concerning tlie future state of the Britons. 

There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, 
on the ascent of Snowdon, called Maen du yr Arddw, the 
black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were 
to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find 
Oimself endowed with the gift of poetiy, and the other would 
become insane. — Williams's Observations on the Snowdun 
Mountains, 

2 rt is believed amongst the inhabitants of these moun- 
lains, that eaglas have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of 
their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, 
'hough very rarely, amongst the precipices. — Williams's 
Oft.»erpa(ions on the Snowdon Mountains 

* ITlis sanguinary deed is not aysted by any historian of 



So shall our spirits be free as our strains — 
The children of song may not languish in chains 

Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest 
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast : 
Red with their blood do her mountain streams 

flow. 
And think ye that still we would linger below : 

Rest, ye brave dead ! 'midst the hills of youi 
sires : 

O, who would not slumber when freedom ex- 
pires ? 

Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain — 

The children of song may not breathe in the 
chain ! 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.* 

The hall of harps is lone to-night, 

And cold the chieftain's hearth ; 
It hath no mead, it hath no light ; 

No voice of melody, no sound of mirth ' 

The bow lies broken on the floor 

Whence the free step is gone ; 
The pilgrim turns him from the door 

Where minstrel blood hath stained the thresh 
old stone. 

" And I, too, go ; my wound is deep ; 

My brethren long have died ; 
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of 
pride ! 

*' Bear it where, on his battle plain, 

Beneath the setting sun. 
He counts my country's noble slain — 

Say to him — Saxon, think not all is won. 

•« Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, 

The minstrel's chainless hand : 
Dreamer ! that numberest with the dead 

The burning spirit of the mountain land ! 

" Think' st thou, because the song hath cea-sed. 

The soul of song is flown r 
Think' st thou it woke to crown the feast. 

It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone ? 

credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none ol Uip 
bardic productions since the time of Edward makei^iyaihi 
sion to such an event. — Cambro- Briton, vol. i. p. 195. 

4 At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh tar»N 
by Edward the First. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



20: 



So ! by our wrongs, and by our blood ! 

We leave it pure and free ; 
riiough. hushed a while, that sounding flood 

Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

• We leave it 'midst our country's woe — 

The birthright of her breast ; 
We leave it as we leave the snow 

Bright and eternal on Eryri's crest. 

'•We leave it with our fame to dwell 

Upon our children's breath ; 
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell — 

The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death." 

He dies ; but yet the mountains stand, 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide ; 
Vnd this is yet Aneurin's ' land — 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of 
pride ! 



THE FAIR ISLE.2 



FOB THE MBLODT CALLED THE " WELSH GEOUND." 

[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, 
always accompanied the annj' when it marched into an 
3nem}''s country ; and, while it was preparing for battle or 
rtivuling the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called 
Unbeniiaeth Prydain, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been 
conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the 
Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by 
their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their 
Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share 
of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was 
rewarded with the most valuable beast Uiat remained. — 
JoNEs'3 Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.] 



Sons of the Fair Isle ! forget not the time 

Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your 

clime ; 
AU that its eagles behold in their flight 
Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled 

height. 
ITiOugh from your race that proud birthright be 

torn, 
Jnquenched is the spirit for monarchy bom. 



Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us a while, 
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle. 

* Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. 
2 Vnys Prj'dain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, 
^.ni signifies fair or beautiful isle 



Ages may roll ere your children regain 
The land for which heroes have perished in vain ; 
Yet in the sound of your names shall be power, 
Around her still gathering in glory's full hour. 
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, 
Your Britain shall sit on thp throne of the deep 



Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, 
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle. 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that "^n the 
summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation re- 
sembling a couch ; and that whoever should pass a night in 
that hollow would be found in tlie morning either dead, in 
a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] 

I LAY on that rock where the storms have their 
dwelling, 
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of thp 
cloud ; 
Around it forever deep music is swelling, 

The voice of the mountain wind, solemn anrl 
loud. 
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully stream- 
ing. 
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled theii 
moan ; 
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly 
gleaming ; 
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur 
alone. 

I lay there in silence — a spirit came o'er me , 
Man's tongue hath no language to speak whai 
I saw ; 
Things glorious, unearthly, passed floating be- 
fore me. 
And my heart almost fainted with raptur« 
and awe. 
I viewed the dread beings around us that hover, 
Though veiled by the mists of mortality's 
breath ; 
And I called upon darkness the yision to cover, 
For a strife was within me of madness and 
death. 

I saw them — the powers of the wind and the 
ocean, 
The rush of whose pinion bears onward th- 
«torms ; 



Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was 
their motion — 
I felt their dim presence, but knew not their 
forms ! 
i saw them — the mighty of ages departed — 
The dead were around me that night on the 
hiU: 
^rom their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance 
they darted, — 
There was light on my soul, but my heart's 
blood was chiU. 

["The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs. 
£Iemaiis to the public as a song writer, had already made 
tfceir appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the 
melody of their numbers — in particular, the song to the 
well-kuown air, ' Ar hyd y nos.' Her fine feeling for 
music, in which, as also in drawing, she would have signally 
excelled, could she have bestowed the time and patient labor 
requisite for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficul- 
ties of these arts, assisted her not only in her choice of 
meas ues, but also of her words ; and although, in speaking 
of her songs, it must be remarked that some of the later 
ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further 



I saw what meoi looks on, and dies — but aay spirit 
Was strong, and triumphantly Lived tlirougb 
that hour ; 
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a powet ! 
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloml 
crested, 
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun ; 
But O, what new glory all nature invested, 
When the sense which gives sotil to her beauty 
was won ! 

clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in 
outline, waiting for the musician's coloring hand, they musi 
be all praised as flowing and expressive ; and it is needless 
to remind the reader how many of them, united with hei 
sister's music, have obtained the utmost populan y. Slie 
had well studied the national character of the Welsh airs, 
and the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient 
Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. Bui 
it was an instinct with Mrs. Hemans to catch the picturesqu* 
points of national character, as well as of national music 
in the latter she always delighted." — Choeley's ^/emo 
rials of Mrs. Hemans, pp. 80, 81.] 



THE YESPERS OF PALERMO 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



[" Mrs. Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied m the composition of her tragedy, ' The Vespers of Palermo,' which 
she originally wrote without any idea of oflTering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr. Regi 
nald Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr. Milman, (to whose correspondence she was introduced through 
the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture 
upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high lit 
erary authorities. Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all vvh( 
read it, and most especially by the critics of the greenroom, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficienll} 
safe guaranty of success, her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between itu 
acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thuu 
wrote to Mr, Milman : — ' As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine 
expectation, I most willingly acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice m having the respite as much 
prolonged as possible. I begin almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragemeni 
f. have received from you and Mr. Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any o\]U*( 
9f escape, than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct my onward path.' " — Mem0»■^ jf^ 
'^l, 82.] 

DRAMATIS PERSON.au 



Count di Procida. 
Raimond di Procida, his Son, 
EuiBERT, Viceroy. 
De Corel. 

MONTALBA. 
GCIDO. 



Alberti. 
Ans£lmo, 



a Monk. 



VlTTORIA. 

Constance, Sister to Enieri. 



JVoblea, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, tc, &c Scene — Palermo. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



209 



ACT I. 

Scene I. - -4 Valley, with vineyards and cottages. 

Groups of Peasants — Procida, disguised as 
a Pilgrim, amo7ig them. 

\st Pea. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time 
In days gone by ! I can remember well 
The old familiar melodies that rose 
At break of morn, from all our purple hills, 
To welcome in the vintage. Never since 
Hath music seemed so sweet. But the light 

hearts, 
Which to those measures beat so joyously, 
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

2d Pea. Yes ! there are sounds 
Of revelry within the palaces. 
And the fair castles of our ancient lords, 
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear 
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise 
At midnight's deepest hour. 

Zd Pea. Alas ! we sat. 
In happier days, so peacefully beneath 
The olives and the vines our fathers reared. 
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps 
Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been 
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er 
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France 
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily 
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bowed 
E'eii to the earth. 

Pea.'s Child. My father, tell me, when 
Shall the gay dance and song again resound 
Amidst our chestnut woods, as in those days 
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale ? 

1st Pea. When there are light and reckless 
hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alas ! my boy. 
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight of work-day care: they meet to speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud. 

Pro. {frofn the background.) Ay, it is well 
3o to reheve th' o'erburdened heart, Avhich pants 
Beneath its weight of wrongs ; but better far 
In silence to avenge them ! 

An Old Pea. W^hat deep voice 
Came -with that startling tone ? 

Is^ Pea. It was our guest's. 
The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourned here 
Since yestermorn. Good neighbors, mark him 

well : 
^e hath a stately bearing, and an eye 
27 



Hi* 



Whose glance looks through the heart. 

mien accoras 
lU with such vestments. How he folds arouni^ 

him 
His pilgrim cloak, e'en as it were a robe 
Of knightly e.tmine ! That commanding step 
Should have been used in courts and camps t» 

move. 
Mark him ! 

Old Pea. Nay, rather mark him not ; fhe timf \ 
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts 
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here- 
A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 
Old Pea. Peace ! we are beset 
By snares on every side, and we must .earn 
In silence and in patience to endure. 
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. 

Pro. {comi?ig forioard indignantly.) 
The word is death ! And what hath life foi ihet. 
That thou shouldst cling to it thus ? thou aOject 

thing ! 
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, 
And stamped with servitude. What ! is it lif«» 
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice 
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast 
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then, 
Strangers should catch its echo ? — Is there 

aught 
In this so precious, that thy furrowed cheek 
Is blanched with terror at the passing thought 
Of hazarding some few and evil days, 
Which drag thus poorly on r 

Some of the Peas. Away, away! 
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence 
Pro. Why, what is danger ? Are there deepei 

ills 
Than those ye bear thus calmly ? Ye have 

drained 
The cup of bitterness till nought remains 
To fear or shrink from — therefore be ye strong ! 
Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye 

thus 
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts 
Locked in your secret souls r Full well I knnw 
There is not one among you but hath nursed 
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth maik>- 
One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs 
And thine — and thine ; but if within youj 

breast 
There is no chord that vibrates to my vcic. 
Then fare ye well. 

A Youth, (comitig forward.) No, no ! say Ci 

say on ! 
There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here. 
That kindle at thy words. 



no 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Pea. If that indeed 
rhou hast a hope to give us 

Pro. There is hope 
For all -who suffer with indignant thoughts 
\Vliich work in silent strength. What ! think 

ye Heaven 
O'erlooks th' oppressor if he bear a while 
His crested head on high ? I tell you, no ! 
TL' avenger wdll not sleep. It was an hour 
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, 
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn 
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less 
Is Justice throned above ; and her good time 
Comes rushing on in storms : that royal blood 
Hath liftea an accusing voice from earth, 
And hath been heard. The traces of the past 
Fade in ma7i's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven 
forget. 

Pea. Had we but arms and leaders, we are 
men 
Who might earn vengeance yet ; but wanting 

these, 
^\'^lat wouldst thou have us do ? 

Pro. Be vigilant ; 
And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. 

[Exit Procida. 

1st Pea. This man should be a prophet ; how 
he seemed 
To read our hearts with his dark searching 

glance 
And aspect of command ! and yet his garb 
Is mean as ours. 

2d Pea. Speak low ; I know him well. 
At first his voice disturbed me, like a dream 
Of other days ; but I remember now 
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served 
Beneath the banners of our kings ! 'Tis he 
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, 
The Count di Procida. 

Pea. And is this he ? 
Then Heaven protect him ! for around his 

steps 
W'ill many snarqg be set. 

1st Pea. He comes not thus 
But with some mighty purpose — doubt it not ; 
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one 
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been 

proved 
True to our native prinoes. But away ! 
The noontide heat is past, and from the seas 
Light gales are wandering through the vine- 
yards ; now 
We may resume our toil. \Exeitnt Peasants. 



Scene II. — The Terrace of a CastlA. 

Eribert, Vittoria. 

Vit. Have I not told thee that I bear a heart 
Blighted and cold ? — Th' affections of my youtt 
Lie slumbering in the grave ; their fount is 

closed. 
And all the soft and playful tenderness 
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have seared it — all is fled from 

mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Eri. O lady ! doth the flower. 
That sleeps intombed through the long wintry 

storms, 
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring, 
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice ? 

Vit. Love ! — make lovers name thy spell. 
And I am strong ! — the very word calls up. 
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers 

arrayed 
In arms against thee ! Know'st thou zahom I 

loved. 
While my soul's dwelling-place was still oe 

earth ? 
One who was bom for empire, and endowed 
With such high gifts of princely majesty 
As bowed all hearts before him ! Was he not 
Brave, royal, beautiful ? And such he died ; 
He died ! — hast thou forgotten ? — And thou'rt 

here, 
Thou meet'st my glance with eyes which coldly 

looked, 

— Coldly ! — nay, rather with triumphant gaze. 
Upon his murder ! Desolate as I am, 

Yet in the mien of thi)ie affianced bride, 
O my lost Conradin ! there should be still 
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o' era we 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

E?-i. Haughty dame ! 
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed. 
Know danger is around thee : thou hast foe» 
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone 
Can shield thee from their arts. 

Vit. Provencal, tell 
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart 
Which hath its little world of loved ones rouna 
For whom to tremble ; and its tranquil joys 
That make earth Paradise. I stand alone ; 

— They that are blessed may fear. 
Eri. Is there not one 

Who ne'er commands in vain ? Proud iad^ 
bend 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he, 
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, 
O'er the bowed neck of prostrate Sicily, 
Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, 
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon 
My deeds have ^\•ell deserved ; and who hath 

power 
Against his mandates ? 

Vit. Viceroy, tell thy lord 
That, e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land, 
Souls may not all be fettered. Oft, e'er now. 
Conquerors have rocked the earth, yet failed to 

tame 
Ifnto their purposes that restless fire 
Inhabiting man's breast. A spark bursts forth, 
And so they perish ! 'Tis the fate of those 
Who sport with lightning — and it may be his. 
Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 
Eri. -Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart 

to bear 
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady ! Love may change — hath 

changed 
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee 

well. 
— Look to it yet ! — To-morrow I return. 

[Exit Eribert. 
Vit. To-morrow ! — Some ere now have slept 

and dreamt 
i)f morrows which ne'er dawned — or ne'er for 

them ; 
So silently their deep and still repose 
Hath melted into death ! Are there not balms 
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep 
Like this on me ? Yet should my spirit still 
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear 
To his a glorious tale of his own isle. 
Free and avenged. — Thou shouldst be now at 

work, 
[n wrath, my native JEtna ! who dost lift 
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, 
Through the red heaven of sunset ! sleep'st thou 

still. 
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread 
Hic glowing vales beneath ? 

[Procida e)iters, disguised. 
Ha ! who art thou, 
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step 
Dost steal upon me ? 

Pro. One o'er whom hath passed 
All that can change man's aspect ! Yet not 

long 
Bhalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. 
I am ne, to breathe v/hose name is perilous, 



Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds tr> ci 
lence. 

— Know'st thou this, lady ? 

[lie shoios a riitf/ 
Vit. Righteous Heaven ! the pledge 
Amidst his people from the scatt'old thrown 
By him who perished, and whose kingly blood 
E'en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high — 

— O, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, 
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer ! 

Pro. Call me so, 
"When my great task is done. Yet who can teL 
If the returned be welcome ? Many a heart 
Is changed since last we met. 

Vit. Why dost thou gaze, 
W^ith such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my altered mien ? 

Pro. That I may read 
If to the widowed love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, 
I now intrust my fate. 

Vit. Thou, Procida ! 
That thou shouldst wrong me thus ! — prolong 

thy gaze 
Till it hath found an answer. 

Pro. 'Tis enough. 
I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change 
Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild 
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, 
And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters 
Of noble sufiering : on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit holds its native state, 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet thi 

voice 
Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shoiddst wed 
This tjTant Eribert. 

Vit. And told it not 
A tale of insolent love repelled with scorn — 
Of stern commands and fearful menaces 
Met with indignant courage ? Procida ! 
It was but now that haughtily I braved 
His sovereign's mandate, which decrees jt] 

hand. 
With its fair appanage of wide domah»8 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, 
To recompense his crimes. — I smiled — Ay 

smiled — 
In proud security ; for the high of heart 
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace. 
Though it be dark and lone. 

Pro. Thou shalt not need 
To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my word* 
I tell thee that a spirit is abroad 



tl2 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Which, will not slumber, till its path be traced 
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live ! 
It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see 
The mighty expiation ! for thy heart 
(Forgive me that I wronged its faith !) hath 

nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set 
Deop on thy marble brow. 

Vit. Then thou canst tell, 
By gazing on the withered rose, that there 
Time, or the blight, hath worked ! Ay, this is in 
Thy vision's scope ! but O, the things unseen, 
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass 
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind 
To ruin struck by grief ! Yet doth my soul. 
Far 'midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, 
Wherein is bright vitality. 'Tis to see 
His blood avenged, and his fair heritage. 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Like a warrior from his slumbers ! 

Pro. Hear'st thou not 
With what a deep and ominous moan the voice 
Of our great mountain swells ? There will be 

soon 
A fearful burst ! Vittoria ! brood no more 
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,) 
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark 
Thou'lt find already kindled I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 
Vit. When shall we meet again? — Are we 

not those 
Whom most he loved on earth ? and think'st thou 

not 
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near, 
While thus we hold communion ? 

Pro. Yes, I feel 
Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee. 
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not 
Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb ; 
He shall have nobler tribute ! — I must hence. 
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. 
[Exeunt separately. 

Scene III. — The Sea Shore. 

Raimond bi Procida, Constance. 

Con. There is a shadow far within your eye. 
Which hath of late been deepening. You were 

wont. 
Upon the clearness of your open brow. 
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round 
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well, 
^f some dark tliought be gathering o'er your soul, 



To hide it from affection. Why is this ? 
My Raimond, why is this ? 

Raim. O, from the dreams 
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood 

still 
A wild and stormy wakening r They depart — 
Light after light, our glorious visions fade, 
The vaguely beautiful ! till earth, unveiled, 
Lies pale around ; and life's realities 
Press on the soul, from its unfathomed depth 
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, 
In all their fearful strength ! 'Tis ever thus, 
And doubly so with me ; for I awoke 
With high aspirings, making it a curse 
To breathe where noble minds are bowed, afl 

here. 

— To breathe ! — It is not breath ! 
Con. I know thy grief, 

— And is't not mine ? — for those devoted men, 
Doomed with their life to expiate some wild 

word, 
Born of the social hour. O, I have knelt. 
E'en at my broflher's feet, with fruitless tears. 
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut 
Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake 
The cause of mercy. 

Raim. Waste not thou thy prayers, 
O gentle love ! for them. There's little need 
For pity, though the galling chain be worn 
By some few slaves the less. Let them de- 
part ! 
There is a world beyond th' oppressor's reach. 
And thither lies their way. 

Con. Alas ! I see 
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the 
soul. 
Raim. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my 
words. 
From feelings hovirly stung, have caught, per- 
chance, 
A tone of bitterr ess. O, when thine eyes. 
With their sweet, eloquent thoughtfulness, are 

fixed 
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget 
All else in their soft beams > and yet I came 

To tell thee 

Con. What ? — what wou dst thou say ? O, 
speak ! 
Thou wouldst not leave me ! 
Raim. I have cast a cloud. 
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruined for- 
tunes. 
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone, 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dweU onci 
more 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



21. 



fn the clear, sunny light of youth and joy, 
E'en as before we mot — before we loved I 

Con. This is but mockery. Well thou know'st 
thy love 
Hath given mc nobler being ; made my heart 
A home for all the deep sublimities 
Of strong affection ; and I would not change 
Th' exalted life I draw from that j^urc source, 
With ail its checkered hues of hope and fear, 
E'en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind ! 
Have I deserved this ? 

Raim O, thou hast deserved 
A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. 
Think not 'tis mockery ! But I cannot rest 
To be the scorned and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded land. Its very skies, 
That smilo as if but festivals were held 
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down 
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine 
For freedom's chartered air. I would go forth 
To seek my noble father ; he hath been 
Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in the dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Cu7i. Must we part ? 
And is it come to this ? O, I have still 
Deemed it enough of joy with thee to share 
E'en grief itself. And now ! But this is vain. 
Alas ! too deep, too fond is woman's love ! 
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raim. O, speak not thus ! 
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold 
Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but 
To be more worthy of a love like thine ; 
For I have dreamt of fame ! A few short yearSj 
And we may yet be blest. 

Con. A few short years ! 
Less time may well suffice for death and fate 
To work all change on earth ; to break the ties 
Which early love had formed ; and to bow down 
Th' elastic spirit ; and to blight each flower 
Strewn in life's crowded path ! But be it so ! 
Be it enough to know that happiness 
Meets thee on other shores. 

Rahn. Where'er I roam, 
Thou shalt be with my soul ! Thy soft, low 

voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness, O that there should be 
Things which we love with such deep tenderness. 
But, through that love, to learn how much of 

woe 
Uwells in one 'lour like this ! Yet weep thou not ! 



We shall meet soon : and many days, dear live 
Ere I depart. 

Con. Then there's a respite still. 
Days ! — not a day but in its course may bring 
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside 
Th' impending blow we shrink from. Fare tlie* 
well. \_Returning 

— O Raimond ! this is not our last farewell ! 
Thou wouldst not so deceive me ? 

Raim. Doubt me not, 
Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit CoNSTANCK. 

Raim. {after a pause.) When shall I breathfl 
in freedom, and give scope 
To those untamable and burning thoughts. 
And restless aspirations, which consume 
^ly heart i' th' land of bondage r O, with you, 
Ye everlasting images of power 
And of infinity ! thou blue rolling deep ! 
And you, ye stars ! whose beams are character* 
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced — 
With you my soul finds room, and casts aside 
The weight that doth oppress her. But mt 

thoughts 
Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
This awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

[Procida enters unobserved. 
It is the hour 
He named, and yet he comes not. 

Pro. {coming forioard.') He is here. 

Raim, Now, thou mysterious stranger — thou 
whose glance 
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue 
Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours 
Reveal thyself : w^hat art thou ? 

Fro. One whose life 
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand 

storms, 
With still a mighty aim. But now the sha.de« 
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
To this, my native land, that I may rest 
Beneath its vines in peace. 

Raim. Seek'st thou for peace ? 
This is no land of peace : unless that deej> 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze mei^ i 

thoughts 
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
With a dull, hollow semblance of repose. 
May so be called. 

Pro. There are such calms full oft 
Preceding earthquakes. But 1 have not been 
So vainly schooled by fortune, and inured 
To shape my course on peril's dizzy bnr.k. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMU. 



That it should irk my spirit to put on . 
Such guise of hushed submissiveness as best 
Must suit the troubled aspect of the times. 
Raim. Why, then, thou'rt welcome, stranger, 

to the land 
Where most disguise is needful. He were bold 
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his 

brow 
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided lives have dra-\vn 
From the same past their long remembrances, 
Now meet in terror, or no more — lest hearts. 
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour 
Should pour out some rash word, which roving 

Avinds 
Might whisper to our conquerors. This it is 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Pro. It matters not 
To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 
And can suppress its workings, till endurance 
Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves 
To all extremes, and there is that in life 
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
Even when its lofty aims are all reduced 
To the poor common privilege of breathing. 
— Why dost thou turn away ? 

Raim. What wouldst thou with me ? 
r deemed thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived 
And made its throne on thy commanding brow. 
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn 
So to abase its high capacities 
For alight on earth. But thou art like the rest. 
What wouldst thou with me ? 
Pro. I would counsel thee. 
Thou must do that which men — ay, valiant 

men — 
Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court. 
And in the stately camp, and at the board 
Of midnight revellers, whose flushed mirth is all 
A strife, won kardly. Where is he whose heart 
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
Of mortal eye ? If vengeance wait the foe, 
Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths concealed 
Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth, I say. 
Keep thy soul down ! Put on a mask ! — 'tis 

worn 
Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth 
And specious intercourse of life requires 
[ts aid in every scene. 

Raim. Away, dissembler ! 
Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, 
Fitted to every nature. Will the tree 
.Vnd royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
'\\ whicli th "■ serpent wins his spell-bound prey ? 



It is because I will not clothe myself 

In a vile garb of coward semblances. 

That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, 

To bid what most I love a long farewell, 

And seek my country on some distant shore, 

Where such things are unknown ! 

Pro. {exullinghj .') Why, this is joy: 
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears. 
And the poor subtleties, of meaner mi ads, 
To meet a spirit, whose bv»ld elastic wing 
Oppression hath not crushed. High-heajted 

youth. 
Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again 
Visit these shores 

Raim. My father ! what of him ? 
Speak ! was he known to thee ? 

Pro. In distant lauds 
With him I've traversed many a M'ild, and looked 
On many a danger ; and the thought that thou 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy. 
Oft through the storm hath cheered him. 

Raim. Dost thou deem 
That still he lives ? O, if it be in chains 
In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell, 
Say but he lives — and I will track his steps 
E'en to earth's verge ! 

Pro. It may be that he lives. 
Though long his name hath ceased to be a woro 
Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound 
May yet be heard ! Raimond di Procidi, 
Rememberest thou thy father ? 

Raim. From my mind 
His form hath faded long, for years have passed 
Since he went forth to exile : but a vague. 
Yet powerful image of deep majesty. 
Still dimly gathering round each thought ox him 
Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my love 
For his inspiring name hath long become 
Part of my being. 

Pro. Raimond ! doth no voice 
Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the armi 
That would enfold thee now ? My son ! my son! 

Raim. Father ! O God ! — my fathsr ! N o-w 
I know 
Wliy my heart woke before thee ! 

Pro. O, this hour 
Makes hope reality ; for thou art all 
My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raim. Y'et why so long 
E'en as a stranger hast thou crossed my paths, 
One nameless and unknown ? — and yet I felt 
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. 

Pro. Because I would not link thy fate witt 
mine. 
Till I could hail the dayspring of that lupe 



'IHE VESPERS OF PALERMO 



fVhirhnowis gaf^ering round us. Listen, youth ! 
Thou hast told »>« of a subdued, and scorned, 
\nd tran^plcd land, -whose very soul is bowed 
\nd fashioned to> her chains : but I tell tJiee 
Of a most gcnerotis and devoted land, 
h. land of kindling energies ; a land 
9f glorious rec^Uections ! — proudly true 
Fc the high roomory of her ancient kings, 
Vnd rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
/ler alien bondage off ! 

Eaim. And where is this ? 

Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
U».r spirit is awake, and moving on, 
Ip its de^p silence mightier, to regain 
Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour 
Of thai tremendous effort is at hand. 

itam. Can it be thus indeed ? Thou pour'st 
new life 
Through all my buxning veins ! I am as one 
•i. wakening from a chill and deathlike sleep 
To the full glorioufs day. 

Pro. Thou shalt tiear more ! 
Thou shalt hear things which would, which loill, 

arouse 
C'ho proud free spirits of our ancestors 
D'oii from their marble rest. Yet mark me well ! 
Be secret ! — for along my destined path 
I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me. 
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a nation's strength. 

Raim. My noble father ! 
Thy words have given me all for which I pined — 
An aim, a hope, a purpose ! And the blood 
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sunstroke freed. 

Pro. Ay, this is well ! 
Such natures burst men's chains ! — Now fol- 
low me. [Exeunt. 

ACT n. 

Scene I. — Apartmeyit in a Palace. 

Eribert, Constance. 

Con. Will you not hear me ? O that they 
who need 
Hourly forgiveness — they who do but live 
Wliiie mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, 
In their vain exercise of pageant power. 
Hard and relentless ! Gentle brother ! yet 
Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, 
^^ose noblest joy is pardon. 
Eri. 'Tis too late. 



You have a soft and moving voice, which plead* 
With eloquent melody — but they must die. 

Con. What ! — die ! — for words ? — for breatli 
which leaves no trace 
To STilly the pure air wherewith it blends, 
And is, being uttered, gone? Why, 'twere enougl 
For such a venial fault to be deprived 
One little day of man's free heritage. 
Heaven's warm and sunny light ! O, if you 

deem 
That evil harbors in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern justice Avake. 

Eri. I am not one 
Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crowned and armed. And, 

mark me, sister ! 
To a distrustful nature it might seem 
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should 

plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note 
I have said, and they must die. 

Con. Have you no fear ? 

Eri. Of what ? — that heaven should fall ? 

Con. Xo ! — But that earth 
Should arm in madness. Brother ! I have seen 
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en 'midst festal throng? 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance. 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eri. Am I then 
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look ? 

Con. O, looks are no illusions, when the soul. 
Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs to liberty ! Have not these men 
Brave sons or noble brothers ? 

Eri. Yes ! whose name 
It rests with me to make a word of fear — 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 

Co7i. But not forgotten ! Ah ! beware, beware 
— Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The springtime glow is lingering. 'Twas but now 
His mother left me, with a timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast : and I — I dared 
To foster its faint spark. You smile '. — O, theq 
He will be saved ! 

Eri, Nay, I but smiled to think 
What a fond fool is Hope ! She may be taugi. 
To deem that the great sun will change his coursi 



216 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
H&ve mocked the boy's sad mother : I have said — 
You should not thus have ynocked her ! — Now, 

farewell ! {Exit Eribert. 

Con. O brother ! hard of heart ! — for deeds 

like these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish ! Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too — for Heaven is merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! [Exit Constance. 

Scene II. — A ruined Tower surrounded hy woods. 
Procida, Vittoria. 

Pro. Thy vassals are prepared, then ? 

Vit. Yes ; they wait 
Thy summons to their task. 

Pro. Keep the flame bright, 
But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, 

lady, 
To join our councils at the night's mid watch, 
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross .'' 

Vit. "What should I shrink from ? 

Pro. O, the forest paths 
Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams 
Through their high arches ; but when powerful 

night 
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale 
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds 
Of her mysterious winds, their aspect then 
Is of another and more fearful world — 
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, 
Waking strange thoughts almost too much for 

this — 
Our frail terrestrial nature. 

Vit. Well I know 
All this, and more. Such scenes have been 

th' abodes 
Where through the silence of my soul have passed 
Voices and visions from the sphere of those 
That have to die no more ! Nay, doubt it not ! 
If such unearthly intercourse hath e'er 
Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts 
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone*, 
tJnmaddened could sustain the fearful joy 
And glory of its trances ! At the hour 
Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth 
And air with infinite viewless multitudes, 
t will be with thee, Procida. 

Pro. Thy presence 
W"il' kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 



Of suffering and indignant men, arouse 

That which may strengthen our majestic cause 

With yet a deeper power. Know'st thou the 

spot ? 
Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild 

and lone, 
In these dim woods, but I ha-v e visited 
Its tangled shades. 

Pro. At midnight, then, we meet. 

[Exit PROa.DA. 
Vit. Why should I fear ? Thou wilt be wilt 

me — thou, 
Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul. 
Spirit of him I love ! that meet'st me still 
In loneliness and silence ; in the noon 
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, 
Known but to me ; for whom thou giv'st the 

winds 
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, ^ 
Till my heart faints with that o'erthriUing joy \ 
— Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lipa 
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with 

shame 
That thou art unavenged ! [Exit Vittokia. 

Scene III. — A Chapel, with a monument on which 
is laid a sword. — Moonlight. 

Procida, Raimond, Montalba. 

Moti. And know you not my story ? 
Pro. In the lands 
Where I have been a wanderer, your desp 

wrongs 
Were numbered with our country's ; but theii 

tale 
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. 
I would fain hear it now. 

Mo7i. Hark ! while you spoke, 
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, 
Which even like death came o'er me. 'Twas a 

night 
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, 
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, 
And swift wild shadows floating o'er the eartii, 
Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years 
Of battle and captivity, I spurred 
My good steed homewards. O, what lovel} 

dreams 
Rose on my spirit ! There were tears and smiles 
But aU of joy ! And there were boundin<ji 

steps, 
And clinging arms, w^hose passionate clasp of lov« 
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck 
When his plumed helm is dofi"ed. — Henct 

feeble thoughts ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



21, 



• I am sterner now, yet once such dreanas were 
mine ! 
liaim. And were they realized ? 
Mo?i. Youth ! ask me not, 
But listen ! I drew near my own fair home — 
There was no light along its walls, no sound 
Of bugle pealing from the watchtower's height 
At my approach, although my trampling steed 
Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were 

thrown 
All open. Then my heart misgave me first, 
And on the threshold of my silent hall 
t paused a moment, and the wind swept by 
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which 

pierced 
My soul e'en now! I called — my struggling 

voice 
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's names. 
They answered not. I roused my failing strength, 
And wildly rushed within. — And they were 
there. 
Eaim. And was all well ? 
Mon. Ay, well ! — for death is well : 
And they were all at rest ! I see them yet, 
Pale in their innocent beav.ty, which had failed 
To stay tb e assassin's arm ! 

Raim. O righteous Heaven ! 
Who had done this ? 
Mon. Who! 

Pro. Canst thou question who ? 
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such 

deeds, 
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, 
But those whose yoke is on us ? 

Raim. Man of woe ! 
V^'^3at wort'« hath pity for despair like thine ? 
Moti. Pit) ! — fond youth ! — My soul dis- 
dains the grief 
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies 
To ask a vain companionship of tears, 
And so to be relieved ! 

Pro. For woes like these 
Ihere is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Mon. None ! 
Therefore I brought you hither, that your 

hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! Look round ! 
We are in th' awful presence of the dead ; 
Within yon tomb thet/ sleep whose gentle blood 
Weighs down the murderer's soul. They sleep ! 

— but I 
A.rti wakeful o'er their dust ! — 1 laid my 

sword, 
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral sto' .•, 
\s on an altar ; and tl"9 eternal stars, 
28 



And heaven, and night, bore witness to m5 

vow. 
No more to wield it save in one great cause — 
The vengeance of the grave ! And now the houi 
Of that atonement comes ! 

[He takes the sword from the tomb. 
Raim. My spirit burns I 
And my full heart almost to bursting swells. 

— O for the day of battle ! 
Pro. Raimond, they 

Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood mx* 
die, 

— But not m battle. 
Raim. How, my father ? 
Pro. No ! 

Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson. But the appointed hour 
Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen bar id. 
Noble Montalba ? 

Mon. Leave me for a time. 
That I may calm my soul by intercourse 
With the still dead, before I mix with men 
And with their passions. I have nursed fi i 

years. 
In silence and in solitude, the flame 
W^hich doth consume me ; and it is not used 
Thus to be looked or breathed on. Procida ! 
I would be tranquil — or appear so — ere 
I join your brave confederates. Through my 

heart 
There struck a pang — but it will soon havt 

passed. 
Pro. Remember — in the cavern by the cross. 
Now follow me, my son. 

[Exeu7it Procida and Raimond. 
Mon. {after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) 
Said he, ♦• My son " ? Now, why should this 

man's life 
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son. 
And I be desolate ? How strange a sound 
Was that — **my son"! I had a boy, whc 

might 
Have worn as free a soul upon his biow 
As doth this youth. Why should the thought 

of him 
Ihus haunt me ! When I tread the peopled 

ways 
Of life again, I shall be passed each hour 
By fathers with their children, and I must 
Learn calmly to look on. Methinks 'twere no<t 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft as I am ! But away. 
Vain thoughts ! — One task, is left for blighten^ 

hearts, 
And if shall be fulfilled. [Exit Montalba 



218 



THE VES.^ERS OF PALERMO. 



S)ENE IV. — Entraiice of a Cave, surrounded by 

rocks and forests. A rude Cross seen among 

the rocks. 

Procida, Raimond. 

Pro. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies 
Df midnight, and in solitary caves, 
Where the wild forest creatures make their lair — 
[s't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 
The councils of their country ? 

Raim. Why, such scenes 
In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deeper thoughts than pillared halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not 
O'ershadowed by that ^tna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay 
Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a 

home 
In other climes i Hark ! from its depths, e'en 

now, 
What hollow moans are sent ! 

Enter Montalba, Guido, and other Sicilians. 

Pro. Welcome, my brave associates ! We can 
share 
The wolf's wild freedom here ! Th' oppressor's 

haunt 
Is not 'midst rocks and caves. Are we all met ? 

Siciliam. All, all ! 

Pro. The torchlight, swayed by every gust, 
But dimly shows your features. — Where is he 
Who from his battles had returned to breathe 
Once more without a corselet, and to meet 
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles 
Blent with his dreams of home ? Of that dark 

tale 
The rest is known to vengeance ! Art thou here. 
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair. 
Childless Montalba ? 

Mon. {advanciyig.) He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Pro. Thou, too, come forth, 
From thine ow n halls an exile I Dost thou make 
The mountain fastnesses thy dwelling still. 
While hostile banners o'er thy rampart walls 
Wave their proud blazonry ? 

\st Sicilian. Even so. I stood 
Last night before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head. What recked it? There 

was joy 
Within, and revelry ; the festive lamps 



Were streaming from each turret, and gay songi 
r th' stranger's tongue made mirth. They lit- 
tle deemed 
Who heard their melodies ! But there ar6 

thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild ; there are dr&ad 

vows 
Known to the mountain echoes. Procida ! 
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh. 
Pro. I knew a young Sicilian — one whose 

heart 
Should be aU fire. On that most guilty > day 
When, with our raartjTcd Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perished ; he of whom 
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid. 
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, 
Calling upon his father, whose last look 
Turned full on him its parting agony. 
The father's blood gushed o'er him ! and the 

boy 
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eyt, 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, looked 

up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he rememcei still 
That bitter hour ? 

2d Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ' 
— Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 
Pro. Ovir band shows gallantly — but inert) 

are men 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish 
For freedom ! — and some traitor — it might be 
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert : so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 
Some other victim first ! But have they not 
Brothers or sons among us ? 

Gui. Look on me ! 
I have a brother — a young high-souled boy, 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is 
A glorious creature ! But his doom is sealed 
With theirs of whom ye spoke ; and I haTe 

knelt — 
Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his life — I knelt 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurned me. But thf 

stain 
Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, 
And thu^ it shall be cancelled ! Call on me. 
When the stern momecit of revenge is nigk. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



2ia 



Pro. I call upon thee now ! The land's high 

soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling,nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains. 
The peasant dreams of freedom ! — Ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. No praise be 

hers 
For what she blindly works ! When slavery's 

cup 
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To auU our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters. And they shall be 

burst ! 
I have hoped when hope seemed frenzy ; but 

a power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswerving energy on one gi-eat aim. 
To make and rule its fortunes ! I have been 
A wanderer in the fulness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, 
Gathei \ng the generous thoughts of other lands 
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near : 
Cut w(^ must give the signal. Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye 
Is on our hearts — whose righteous arm be- 
friends 
The i rm that strikes for freedom — speak ! 

decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 

Mon. Let them fall 
When dreaming least of peril ! — when the 

heart, 
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the 

sword 
With a thick veil of myrtle ; and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the full wine cup shines 
Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there, 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 
Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy 

words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Mo7i. Why, then I must repeat 
Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst 

forth 
[n some free festal hour — and woe to him . 
Who first shall spare ! 

Raim. Must innocence and guilt 
Perish alike ? 

Mon. Who talks of innocence ? 
vVhen hath their hand been stayed for inno- 

^enre ? 



Let them all perish ! — Heaven will choose ita 

own. 
Why should their children live ? The earth 

quake whelms 
Its undistinguished thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path — and this 
Is Heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well ! 
Why then should we be tender, when the skici 
Deal thus with man ? What if the infant bleed ? 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs ? 
What if the youthful bride perchance shouH 

faU 
In her triumphant beauty ? Should we pause. 2 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our woss * 
Let them all perish ! And if one be found 
Amidst our band to stay th' avenging steel 
For pity, or remorse, or bopsh love, 
Then be his doom as theirs ! [A paiisi 

Why gaze ye thus I 
Brethren, what means your silence ? 

Sicilians. Be it so ! 
If one among us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ! 
Pledge we our faith to this ! 

Raim. {Rushing forward indignantly.') Ow 

faith to this ! 
No ! I but dreamt I heard it ! Can it be ? 
My countrymen, my father ! — is it thus 
That freedom should be won ? Awake ! - 

awake 
To loftier thoughts ! Lift up exultingly, 
On the crowned heights and to the sweeping 

winds, 
Your glorious banner ! Let your trumpet's bias 
Make the tombs thrill with evhoes ! Call 

aloud. 
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall beai 
The stranger's yoke no longer ! What is he 
Who carries on his practised lip a smile, 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bounds with joy to still its beat- 
ings ? 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoiJ 

from. 
And our blood curdle at — ay, yours and mine — 
A murderer ! Heard ye ? Shall that nann 

with ours 
Go down to after days ? O friends ! a cause 
Like that for which we rise hath made bright 

names 
Of th' elder time as rallying words to men -- 
Sounds full of might and immortality ! 
And shall not ours be such ? 
Mon. Fond dreamer, peace ! 



220 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Fame ! What is fame ? Will our unconscious 

dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave 
At the vain breath of praise ? I tell thee, youth. 
Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst, 
Which must be quenched, though death were 

in the draught ; 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other joy unblighted. 

Pro. my son ! 
The time is past for such high dreams as thine. 
Thou know'st not whom we deal with : knight- 
ly faith 
And chivalrous honor are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And, for our names — whate'er the deeds by 

which 
We burst our bondage — is it not enough 
That in the chronicle of days to come, 
We, through a bright " Forever," shall be called 
The men who saved their country ? 

Raim, Many a land 
Hath bowed beneath the yoke, and then arisen 
As a strong lion rending silken bonds, 
And on the open field, before high Heaven, 
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made 
Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own 
It is enough of glory to be called 
The children of the mighty, who redeemed 
Their native soil — but not by means like these. 
Mo7i. I have no children. Of Montalba's blood 
Not one red drop doth circle through the 

veins 
Of aught that breathes ! Why, what have / 

to do 
With far futurity ? My spirit lives 
But in the past. Away ! when thou dost stand 
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree 
Which the warm sun revives not, theji return, 
Strong in thy desolation : but till then. 
Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 

Raim. ^lontalba ! know 
I shrink from crime alone. O, if my voice 
Mi^'ht yet have power among you, I would say, 
Associates, leaders, he avenged ! but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Mon. Peace ! have we not borne 
Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains ? 
We are 7iot knights and warriors. Our bright 

crests 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy ! we are slaves — and our revenge shall be 
Heep afi a slave's disgrace. 



Raim. Why, then, farewell : 
I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased, 
And his name pure, w^ere but a loiterer here. 

Pro. And is it thus indeed ? — dost thoii foi 
sake 
Our cause, my son ? 

Raim. O father ! what proud hopes 
This hour hath blighted ! Yet, whate'er betide 
It is a noble privilege to look up 
Fearless in heaven's bright face — and this ii 

mine, 
And shall be still. [Exit Raimond 

Pro. He's gone ! Why, let it be ! 
I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Valiant as mine. Associates ! 'tis decreed 
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Mon. It should be 
In the full city, when some festival 
Hath gathered throngs, and lulled infatuate 

hearts 
To brief security. Hark ! is there not 
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze ? 
We are betrayed. — Who art thou ? 

ViTTORiA enters. 

Pro. One alone 
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift tlie veil 
That shades thy noble brow. 

[She raises her veil — the Sicilians drau 
hack iciih respect. 

Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 
Of our lost king ! 

Pro. And more, Montalba ; know 
Within this form there dwells a soul as high 
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved. 
Or patriots on the scaffold. 

Vit. Valiant men ! 
I come to ask your aid. You see me, one 
Whose widowed youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held 
In token and memorial of the dead. 
Say, is it meet that, lingering thus on earth 
But to behold one great atonement made. 
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, 
A t}T:ant's will should force me to profane 
Heaven's altar with unhallowed vow^s, and Uto 
Stung by the keen, unutterable scorn 
Of my own bosom ; live — another's bride ? 

Sicilians. Never ! O, never ! Fear not, nobU 
lady! 
Worthy of Conradin ! 

Vit. Yet hear me still — 
His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tear* 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



22. 



^ith his insulting eye of cold derision, 

Aflid, could he pieice the depths where feeling 

■works, 
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. 
Say, is this meet ? 

Gui. We deemed these nuptials, lady, 
Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find 
Thou'rt noble still. Fear not ; by all our T\Trongs, 
rhis shall not be. 

Pro. Vittoria, thou art come 
Tc isk our aid — but we have need of thine. 
Know, the completion of our high designs 
Requires — a festival ; and it must be 
Thy bridal ! 

Vit. Procida ! 

Pro. Nay, start not thus.' 
Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair 
With festal garlands, and to bid the song 
Rise, and the wine cup mantle. No — nor yet 
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

Vit. Can my soul 
Dissemble thus ? 

Pro. We have no other means 
Of winning our great birthright back from those 
Who have usurped it, than so lulling them 
Into vain confidence, that they may deem 
All wrongs forgot ; and this may be best done 
By what I ask of thee. 

Mo7i. Then we will mix 
With the flushed revellers, making their gay feast 
The harvest of the grave. 

Vit. A bridal day ! 
— Must it be so ? Then, chiefs of Sicily, 
I bid you to my nuptials ! but be there 
With your bright swords unsheathed — for thus 

alone 
My guests should be adorned. 

Pro. And let thy banquet 
Be soon announced ; for there are noble men 
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would pur- 
chase 
Reprieve with other blood. 

Vit. Be it then the day 
Preceding that appointed for their doom. 

Gtii. My brother ! thou shalt live ! Oppres- 
sion boasts 
No gift of prophecy ! — It but remains 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Mo?i. The Vesper bell ! 

Pro. Even so — the Vesper bell, whose deep- 
toned peal 
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band, 
Wearing the guise of antic revelry, 
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, 



The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour 
Devoted to the sword's tremendous task, 
I follow with the rest. The Vesper beil ! 
That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come 
The time when power is in a voice, a breath, 
To burst the spell which bound us. But tlw 

night 
Is waning, with her stars, which one by cne 
Warn us to part. Friends, to your homes ! • 

your homes f 
That name is yet to win. Away ! prepare 
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. 
The Vesper bell ! Remember ! 

Sicilians. Fear us not. 
The Vesper bell ! [Exeunt omne% 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace 

Eribert, Vittoria. 

Vit. Speak not of love — it is a word with deep 
Strange magic in its melancholy sound. 
To summon up the dead ; and they should rest 
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 
We must throw from us, when the heart woul»'' 

gather 
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes ; 
Therefore, no more of love ! But if to robe 
This form in bridal ornaments — to smile 
(I can smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; - if this be deemed 
Enough, it shall be done. 
Eri. My fortune's star 
Doth rule th' ascendant still ! {Apart.) — If no* 

of love. 
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy y 

And with exulting heart 

Vit. There ^5 no joy ! 
— Who shall look through the far futurity, 
And, as the shadowy visions of events 
Develop on his gaze, 'midst their dim throng. 
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, 
"This will bring happiness"? Who ehall dt 

this ? 
Who ! thou and I, and all ! There's One, wh.v sits 
In His own bright tranqiiillity enthrftned, 
High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond 
Their thickest clouds ! but we, from whose dull 

eyes 
A grain of dust hides the great sun — e'en w 
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers. 
Of future joy and grief! 

Eri. Thy words are strange. 
Yet wiU I hope that peace at length shall settl* 



222 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria ! 
0, if my cares 

Vit. I know a day shall come 
Of peace to all. Even from my darkened spirit 
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, 
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down 
P'Tenely to repose. Of this no more, 
have a boon to ask. 

ii/-i. Command my power, 
And deem it thuo most honored. 

Vit. Have I tlien 
Soared such an eagle pitch as to command 
The mighty Eribert ? — And yet 'tis meet ; 
For I bethink me now I should have worn 
A croivn upon this forehead. Generous lord ! 
Since thus j'ou give me freedom, know, there is 
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a 

sound 
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bear- 
ing 
A sense of deep repose, have lulled me oft 
To peace — which is forgetfulness ; I mean 
The Vesper bell. I pray you, let it be 
The summons to our bridal. Hear you not ? 
To our fair bridal ! 

Eri. Lady, let your will 
Appoint each circumstance. I am too blessed, 
Proving my homage thus. 

Vit. Why, then, 'tis mine 
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day. 
And I may be content. Yet much remains 
For thought to brood on, and I would be left 
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I'm at thy side once more, but I shall stand 
There — to the last ! 

Eri. Your smiles are troubled, lady — 
May they ere long be brighter ! Time will seem 
£low till the Vesper bell. 

Vit. 'Tis lovers' phrase 
To say — Time lags, and therefore meet for 

you; 
But with an equal pace the hours move on, 
Whether they bear on their swift, silent wing 
Pleasure oc — fate. 

Eri. Be not so full of thought 
On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves 
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile 
Unshadowed by a cloud. 

Vit. 'Tis very meet 
That Heaven (which loves the just) should wear 

a smile 
n honor i i his fortunes. Now, my lord, 



Forgive me if I say farewell until 
Th' appointed hour. 

Eri. Lady, a brief fjaoweli. 

[Exeurzt separately 

ScEXE n. — The Sea Shore. 
Peocida, Raimond. • 

Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share th* 
glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise ? 

Raim. O father ! 
I too have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, 
Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds* 
Whereby 'twas won — the high exploits, whose 

tale 
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest. 

Pro. Every deed 
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The freedom of our country ; and the sword 
Alike is honored in the patriot's hand, 
Searching, 'midst warrior hosts, the heart which 

gave 
Oppression birth, or flashing througli the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, 
At dead of night. 

Raim. (turning away.) There is no path but one 
For noble natures. 

Pro. Wouldst thou ask the man 
Who to the earth hath dashed a nation s 

chains. 
Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by wha^, 

means 
The glorious end was won ? Go, sweU th' ac« 

claim ! 
Bid the deliverer, hail ! and if his path, 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny. 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called 
A stern necessity, but not a crime ! 

Raim. Father ! my soul yet kindles at th» 
thought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learned. 
E'en from thy voice. The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the heArt 
Where thou didst plant them ; and they sr>«aV, 

of men 
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild 
Acts that would bear heaven's light — and suci 

be mine ! 
O father ! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiaiit hearts 
On our most righteous cause ? 

f?ro. What wouldst thou do ? 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Itaim. I would go forth, and rouse th' indig- 
nant land 
To generous combat. Why should freedom 

strike 
M«ntl0«^ with darkness ? Is there not more 

(Strength 
E'en in the waving of her single arm 
I'han hosts can wield against her ? I would rouse 
That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere — the stormy field of fight ! 
Pro. Ay ! and give time and warning to the foe 
To gather all his might ! It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun 
When rings the Vesper bell ; and, long before 
To-morrow's sun hath reached i' th' noonday 

heaven 
His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provencal tongue within our walls, 
As by one thunderstroke — (you are pale, my 

son) — 
Shall be forever silenced ! 

Raim. What ! such sounds 
As falter on the lip of infancy, 
In its imperfect utterance r or are breathed 
By the fond mother as she lulls her babe ? 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air 
Poured by the timid maid ? Must all alike 
Be stilled in death ? and wouldst thou tell my 

heart 
There is no crime in this f 

Pro. Since thou dost feel 
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 
Raim. Speak ! O, speak ! 
Pro. How would those rescued thousands 
bless thy name 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raim. Father ! I can bear — 
Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems 
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought. 

Pro. {after a pause.) Thou hast a brow 
Clear as the day — and yet I doubt thee, Rai- 

mond ! 
Whether it be that I have learned distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folded 

heart ; 
VSIiether my paths have been so seldom crossed 
By honor and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus 
My unaccustomed gaze : howe'er it be — 
^ doubt thee ! See thou Avaver not— take heed, 
firae lifts* th.e veil from aU things ! 

^Exit Pkocida. 



Raim. And 'tis thus 
Youth fades from off our sp*.rit ; and the robes 
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith 
We clothed our idols, drop ! O, bitter day ! 
When, at the crushing of our glorious world. 
We start, and find men thus ! Yet be it so ! 
Is not my soul still powerful in itself 
To realize its dreams ? Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. But, away ! 
Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! — Lcrt 

is yet 
Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond 

Scene III. — Gardens of a Palace. 
Constance alone. 

Con. There was a time when my thoughts 
wandered not 
Beyond these fairy scenes ! — when but to catoh 
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze 
From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, 
Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade 
Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough 
Of happiness. How have these calm delights 
Fled from before one passion, as the dews, 
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
By the great,sun ! [Raimond enters. 

Raimond ! O, now thou'rt come — 
I read it in thy look — to say fareweU 
For the last time — the last ! 

Raim. No, best beloved ! 
I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us but in death. 

Co7i. I have dreamt of joy, 
But never aught like this. Speak yet again ! 
Say we shall part no more ! 

Raim. No more — if love 
Can strive with darker spirits ; and he is strong 
In his immortal nature ! All is changed 
Since last we met. My father — keep the tale 
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 
From Eribert — my father is returned : 
I leave thee not. 

Con. Thy father ! blessed sound ! 
Good angels be his guard ! O, if he knew 
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hatt 
Even a Provencal maid ! Thy father ! — now 
Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow once more ! But how J 

this r 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine r 
And in thy look is t'lat which iD befits 
A tale of joy. 



224 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Raim. A dream is on my soul. 
I see a slumberer, crowned with flowers, and 

smiling 
As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and this strange fantasy- 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
[ cannot but be sad. 

Con. AVhy, let me sing 
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, 
4nd this will banish it. 

Raim. It may not be. 
gentle Constance ! go not forth to-day : 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Con. Have you then forgot 
My brother's nuptial feast ? I must be one 
Of the gay train attending to the shrine 
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy 
Will print earth lightly now. "What fear'st 

thou, love ? 
Look all around ! the blue transparent skies, 
And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life 
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly 

chase 
All thought of evil. Why, the very air 
Breathes of delight ! Through all its glowing 

realms 
Doth music blend with fragrance ; and e'en here 
The city's voice of jubilee is heard. 
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds 
Of human joy ! 

Raim. There lie far deeper things — 
Things that may darken thought for life, beneath 
That city's festive semblance. I have passed 
Through the glad multitudes, and I have marked 
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, 
Which deemed their flash unnoticed, and a 

quick. 
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe 
Its mien with carelessness ; and now and then, 
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand 
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out 
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread 
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide 
Much from unpractised eyes ; but lighter signs 
Have been projihetic oft. 

Con. I tremble ! — Raimond ! 
What may these things portend ? 

Raim. It was a day 
Of festival like this ; the city sent 
Up through her sunny firmament a voice 
Joyous as now ; when, scditf ely heralded 
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous 

depths 
^he earthquake burst ; and the wide splendid 
scene 



Became one chaos of all fearful thing«i. 

Till the brain whirled, partaking the sick motion 

Of rocking palaces. 

Con. And then didst thou. 
My noble Raimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, 
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had 

given 
One burial unto thousands, rush to save 
Thy trembling Constance ! she who lives tc 

bless 
Thy generous love, that still the breath of heave'^ 
Wafts gladness to her soul ! 

Raim. Heaven ! — Heaven is just ! 
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one ! stili. 
Trust none beside. O, the omnipotent skies 
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man 
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares. 
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, 
Masked as a reveller. Constance ! O, by all 
Our tried aff'ection, all the vows which bind 
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers ; 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sound for vesper prayer ! 

Con. And know'st thou not 
'Twill be the bridal hour ?* 

Raim. It will not, love ! 
That hour will bring no bridal ! Nought of this 
To human ear ; but speed thou hither — fly. 
When evening brings that signal. Dost thou 

heed ? 
This is no meeting by a lover sought 
To breathe fond tales, and make tne twilight 

groves 
And stars attest his vows ; deem th du not so. 
Therefore denying it ! I tell thet, Constance ! 
If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair 
As falls on man, beholding all he loves 
Perish before him, while his strength can but 
Strive with his agony — thou'lt meet me then. 
Look on me, love ! — I am not oft so moved — 
Thou'lt meet me ? 

Con. O, what mean thy words ? If then 
My steps are free, — I will. Be thou bui 
calm. 

Raim. Be calm ! — there is a cold and sullen 
calm. 
And, were my wild fears made realities. 
It might be mine ; but, in this dread suspenr5e — 
This conflict of all terrible fantasies, 
There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, deai 

love! 
I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewel] 
Until that hour ! 

Co?i. My Raimond, fare thee well. [Ex^inl, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



22A 



ScEiCE IV. — Room in the Citadel of Palermo. 
Alberti, De Couci. 

Dp. Cou. Saidst thou, this night .'' 

Alb. This very night — and lo ! 
E'en now the sun declines. 

De Cou. What ! are they armed ? 

Alh. All armed, and strong in vengeance and 
despair. 

De Cou. Doubtful and strange the tale ! Why 
was not this revealed before ? 

Alh. Mistrust me not, my lord I 
That stern and jealous Procida hath kept 
O'er all my steps (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought 
To read in mine) a watch so vigilant 
X knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
Alone I mingled with his bands — to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

De Cou. How may we now 
Avert the gathering storm ! The viceroy 

holds 
His bridal feast, and all is revelry. 
'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Alb. Thou thyself 
Mayst yet escape, and haply of thy bands 
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance 
Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream 
Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush 
Before him with the tidings, in his pride 
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh 
Thy tale to scorn. 

De Cou. He must not die unwarned. 
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, 
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake 
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, 
And shalt not pass unguerdoned, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching 
night. 

Alb. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou 
Ccwnmands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. 

[Exit Alberti. 

De Cou. The grovelling slave ! — And yet he 
spoke too true ! 
For Eribert, in blind, elated joy, 
Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes 

fast. 
And through the city, recklessly dispersed, 
Unarmed and unprepared, my soldiers revel. 
E'en on the brink of fate. I must away. 

[Exit De Couci. 
29 



Scene V. 



A Banqueting Hall. 
Nobles assembled. 



Provencal 



\st Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting ! Who 
hath seen 
The viceroy's bride ? 

2d Noble. I saw her as she passed 
The gazing throngs assembled in the city. 
'Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, 
Her castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians that her wide domains 
Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 

Zd Noble. 'Twas their boast 
With what fond faith she worshipped still tha 

name 
Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves 
Brook this new triumph of their lords ? 

2d Noble. In sooth. 
It stings them to the quick. In the full streets 
They mix with our Provencals, and assume 
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them 
'Twere worth a thousand festivals to see 
With what a bitter and unnatural effort 
They strive to smile. 

1st Noble. Is this Vittoria fair ? 

2d Noble. Of a most noble mien ; but yet he* 
beauty 
Is wild and awful, and her large, dark eye, 
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, 
From which thou'lt shrink as I did. 

l5^ Noble. Hush ! they come. 

Enter Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, anu others. 

Eri. Welcome, my noble friends ! — r their 
must not lower 
One clouded brow to-day in Sicily ! 
— Behold my bride ! 

Nobles. Receive our homage, lady ! 

Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we ofiei 
Prove worthy of such guests ! 

Eri. Look on her, friends ! 
And say if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem. 

Vit. 'Tis well, my lord ! 
When memory's pictures fade — 'tis kindly do» 
To brighten their dimmed hues ! 

1st Noble, {apart.) Marked you her glance ? 

2d Noble, (apart.) What eloquent scorn ww 
there ! Yet he, th' elate 
Of heart, perceives it not. 

Eri. Now to the feast ! 
Constance, you look not joyous. I have aaitf 
That all should smile to-day. 

Co?i. Forgive me, brother ; 



lit 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



rhe heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppresses it. 

Eri. "Why, how is this ? 

Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, 
tJnto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds 
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, 
Since 'tis your wish. In truth, I should feave been 
A village maid. 

Eri. But being as you are, 
Not thus ignobly free, command your looks 
'/They may be taught obedience) to reflect 
The aspect of the time. 

Vit. And know, fair maid ! 
That, if in this unskilled, you stand alone 
Amidst our court of pleasure. 

Eri. To the feast ! 
Now let the red wine foam ! — There should be 

mirth 
When conquerors revel ! Lords of this fair isle ! 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, 

and pledge 
The present and the future ! for they both 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my biide ? 

Vit. Yes, Eribert-! — thy prophecies of joy 
Have taught e'en me to smile. 

En. 'Tis well. To-day 
] have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, 
To waft me happiness ! — my proudest foes 
Must die ; and then my slumbers shall be laid 
On rose leaves, with no envious fold to mar 
The luxury of its visions ! — Fair Vittoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

Vit. It is strange — but oft, 
'Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul 
Death comes, with son?'* dull image ! As you 

spoke 
Ol those whose blood ia claimed, I thought for 

them 
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night 
E'er wove -with all her clouds, have pined so long, 
How bless6d were the stroke which makes them 

things 
( f that invisible world, wherein, we trust, 
l"heie is at least no bondage ! But should we. 
From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys 
Con-tend for mastery, and the very sense 
Ol life is rapture — should we pass, I say, 
At once from such excitements to the void 
And silent gloom of that which doth await us - 
Were it not dreadful ? 

R-i. Banish such dark thoughts ! 
They ill beseem the hour. 

Vit. There is no hour 
'^f this mysterious world, in joy or woe. 



But they beseem it well ! Why, what a sli^Ht^ 
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, whic> 

severs 
Being from death ! And who can tell how nea' 
Its misty brink he stands ? 

\st Noble, (aside.) What mean her words r 

2d Noble. There's some dark mystery here. 

Eri. No more of this ! 

Pour the bright juice which Etna's glowing vine» 

Yield to the conquerors ! And let music's voice 

Dispel these ominous dreams ! — Wake, harp an'1 

song ! 
Swell out your triumph ! 

A Messenger enters, bearing a letter. 
Mes. Pardon, my good lord ! 

But this demands 

Eri. What means thy breathless haste, 
And that ill-boding mien ? Away ! such look* 
Befit not hours like these. 
I Mes. The Lord De Couci 
j Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught witL. 
' tidings 

Of life and death. 

Vit. (/iiirriedli/.) Is this a time for aught 
But revelry ? My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene. 

Eri. (to the Messenger.) Hence ! Tell the Lord 
De Couci, we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger 

Let there be 
Around me none but joyous looks to-day. 
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! 

A band of the Conspirators enter, to the sound of 
music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &;c. 
Eri. What forms are these ? "SATiat meana 

this antic triumph ? 
Vit. 'Tis but a rustic pageant> by my vasScls 
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not 
Hear their wild music ? Our Sicilian vales 
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, 
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe jn 

some strain 
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily ! 

One of the Masquers sings. 

The festal eve, o'er earth and sky, 

In her sunset robe looks bright, 
And the purple hills of Sicily 

With their vineyards laugh in light ; 
From the marble cities of her plains 

Glad voices mingling swell ; 
— But with yet more loud and lofty strain* 

They shall hail the Vepper bell I 



THE \\ESPERS OF PALERMO. 



O, sweet its tones when the summer breeze 

Their cadence wafts afar, 
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas, 

As they gleam to the first pale star ! 
The shepherd greets them on his height, 

The hermit in his cell ; 
«— But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, 
In the sound of the Vesper bell ! 

[ The bell rings. 
Et i. It is the hour ! Hark, hark ! — my bride, 
our summons ! 
rhe altar is prepared and crowned with flowers. 

That wait 

Tit. The victim ! 

[A tumult heard without. 

Procida a7td MoNTALBA enter, with others, armed. 
Pro. Strike ! the hour is come ! 
Vit. Welcome, avengers ! welcome ! Now, 
be strong ! 

(TAe Conspirators throw off their disguise, and 
rush with their swords drawn upon the Provengals. 
Eribeut is wounded, and falls.) 

Pro. Now hath fate reached thee, in thy mid 
career, 
Thou leveller in a nation's agonies ! 

{The Provengals are driven, off, pursued by the 
Sicilia?is.) 
Con. {supporting Eribert.) My brother ! O, 

my brother ! 
Eri. Have I stood 
A leader in the battle fields of kings, 
To perish thus at last ? Ay, by these pangs, 
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep. 
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, 
rhis should be — death ! In sooth, a duU ex- 
change 
For the gay bridal feast ! 

Voices, {without.) Remember Conradin ! — spare 

none ! — ■ spare none ! 
Vit. {throu'int; off her bridal wreath and orna- 
ments.) This is proud freedom ! Now my 
soul mny cast, 
[n generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To earth, forever ! And it is such joy. 
As if a captive from his dull cold cell 
Might soar at once, on chartered wing, to range 
The realms of starred infinity ! Away ! 
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath ! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come ; and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert! 
Believe iii retribution ! What ! proud man ! 



Prince, ruler, conqueror ! didst thou deer. 

Heaven slept ? 
" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers. 
Ranging the world to note e'en purposed crim< 
In burning characters, had laid aside 
Their everlasting attributes for thee? " 
O, blind security ! He in whose dread hand 
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reached 
His pyramid height of power ; that so his fall 
May with more fearful oracles make pale 
Man's crowned oppressors ! 

Co7i. O, reproach him not ! 
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink 
Of that dim world where passion may not enter. 
Leave him in peace. 

Voices, {without.) Anjou ! Anjou ! — De Couci, 
to the rescue ! 

Eri. {half raising himself.) My brave Pro- 
vencals I do ye combat still r 
And I your chief am here ! Now, now I fe^' 
That death indeed is bitter. 

Vit. Fare thee well ! 
Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile 
Have looked on man's last pangs, thou shouldst by 

this 
Be perfect how to die ! [Exit Vittoria. 

Raimond enters. 

Raim. Away, my Constance ! 
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughteim 

bands 
Are scattered far and wide. A little while 
And thou shalt be in safety. Know'st thou not 
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man 
Anselmo ? — he whose hermitage is reared 
'Mid some old temple's ruins ? Round the spot 
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, 
'Tis hallowed as a sanctuary wherein 
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm 
Have spent its fury. Haste ! 

Cofi. I will not fly ! 
While in his heart there is one throb of life, 
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave 
The brother of my youth to perish thus. 
Without one kindly bosom to sustain 
His dying head. 

Eri. The clouds are darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me — to what ? But I have been 
Used to command ! — Away ! I will not die. 
But on the field [He diet 

Con. {kneeling by him.) O Heaven ! be merciful 
As thou art just ! — for he is now where nougbf 
Bu mercy can avail him. — It is past \ 



Z28 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



GuiDO enters with his sword drawn. 

Gut. {to Raimond.) I've sought thee long — 
why art thou lingering here ? 
Haste, follow me ! Suspicion with thy name 
/oins that word — Traitor ! 

Raim. Traitor ! — Guido ? 

Gui. Yes ! 
Hjst thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
De Couci hath escaped ? And there are those 
Who murmur that from thee the warning came 
VVliich saved him from our vengeance. But 

e'en yet. 
In the red current of Proven<;al blood. 
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good 

sword. 
And follow me ! 

Raim. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido ! 
'Tis come to this ! — Away ! mistrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou know'st me not ! 

Gui. Raimond di Procida ! — 
If thou art he whom once I deemed so noble — 
Call me thy friend no more ! [Exit Guido. 

Raim. (after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise ! 
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfilled, 
E'en in the face of death ; but all is o'er. 
And this is now no place where nature's tears 
In quiet sanctity may freely flow. 
— Hark ! the wild sounds that wait on fearful 

deeds 
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar 
Of fast- advancing billows ; and for thee 
I shame not thus to tremble. — Speed ! O, speed ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. — A Street in Palermo. 
Procida enters. 

Pro. How strange and deep a stillness loads 

the air, 
As with the power of midnight ! Ay, where 

death 
IJalh passed, there should be silence. But this 

hush 
Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things. 
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky. 
With its dark robe of purple thunder clouds. 
Brooding in sullen masses o'er my spirit. 
Weighs like an omen ! Whcref< re should this be? 
Is not our task achieved — the mighty work 
Of our deliverance ! Yes ; I should be joyous : 
But this our feeble nature, with its quick 



Instinctive superstitions, will arag down 

Th' ascending soul. And I have fearful bodiniji 

That treachery lurks amongst us. — Raimond 

Raimond ! 
O, guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb ! 
It cannot be ! 

MoNTALBA, Guido, and other Sicilians enter. 

Pro. Welcome ! we meet in joy ! 
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming 
The kingly port of freemen ! Who shall dare, 
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil. 
To weave us chains again ? Ye have done well 

Mon. We have done well. There needs nc 
choral song. 
No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth 
Our stern exploits. The sikfice of our foes 
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest. 
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task 
Is still but half achieved, since with his bands 
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts 
And deeds to startle earth are yet required 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. 
Where is thy son ? 

Pro. I know not. Once last night 
He crossed my path, and with one stroke beat 

down 
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored 
My own, which in that deadly strife had been 
WreriC?ied from my grasp ; but when I would 

have pressed him 
To my exulting bosom, he drew back, 
And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile. 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that houi 
I have not seen him. W^herefore didst thou ask ? 

Mon. It matters not. We have deep things 
to speak of. 
Know'st thou that we have traitors in our coun- 
cils r 

Pro. I know some voice in secret must hav^ 
warned 
TjG Couci, or his scattered bands had ne'er 
So soon leen marshaUed, and in close array 
Led hence as from the field. Hast thoa neai i 

aught 
That may develop this ? 

Mon. The guards we set 
To watch the city gates have seized, this morn 
One whose quick fearful glance and hurried stej 
Betrayed his guilty purpose. Mark ! he bore 
(Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight 
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him - 
The fugitive Provencal. Read and judge ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



22t 



Pro. Where is this messenger ? 

Mon. "SVhcre should hfe be ? 
fhey slew liim in their wrath. 

Pro. Unwisely done ! 
firive me the scrolls. [He reads. 

Now, if there be such things 
A.S may to death add sharpness, yet delay 
The pang which gives release ; if there be power 
[n execration to call down the fires 
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts 
But for such guilt were sinless ; be they heaped 
Upon the traitor's head ! — Scorn make his name 
Her mark forever ! 

Mo/i. In our passionate blindness, 
We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves. 

Pro. Whate'er fate hath of ruin 
Fall on his house ! What ! to resign again 
That freedom for whose sake our souls have 

now 
Ingrained themselves in blood ! Why, who is he 
That hath devised this treachery ? To the scroll 
Why fixed he not his name, so stamping it 
With an immortal infamy, whose brand 
Might wari> men from him ? Who should be 

so ^ ile ? 
Alberti ? — In his eye is that which ever 
Shrinks from encountering mine ! — But no ! 

his race 
Is of our noblest. O, he could not shame 
That high descent ! Urbino r — Conti ? — No ! 
They are too deeply pledged. There's one name 
more ! 
-I cannot utter it ! Now shall I read 
Each face with cold suspicion, wliich doth blot 
From man's high mien its native royalty, 
And seal his noble forehead with the impress 
Of its own vile imaginings ! Speak your 

thoughts, 
Montalba ! Guido ! — Who should this man be ? 

Mon. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed 
last night 
His sword to aid our foes, and turned its edge 
Against his country's chiefs r — He that did this 
May well be deemed for guiltier treason ripe. 

Pro. And who is he ? 

Mo7i. Nay, ask thy son. 

Pro. My son ! 
vVhat should he know of such a recreant heart r 
Bpeuk, Guido ! thou'rt his friend ! 

Gut. 1 would not wear 
rhe brand of such a name ! 

Pro. How ? what means this ? 
A flash of light breaks in upon my soul ! 
b It to blait me ? Yet the fearful doubt 



Hath crept in darkness through my tliou^hti 

before. 
And been flung from them. Silence ! - Spcalt 

not yet ! 
I would be calm, and meet the thunderburst 
With a strong heart. [^l paitsi 

Now, what have I tc he?? 
Your tidings ! 

Gui. Briefly, 'twas your son did thus ! 
He hath disgraced your name. 

Pro. My son did thus ! 
Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning out ? What did my son r 
I have fox-got the tale. Repeat it, quick ! 

Gui. 'Twill burst upon thee all too soon. 
While we 
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites 
Of retribution ; while we bathed the earth 
In red libations, which will consecrate 
The soil thej" mingled with to freedom's step 
Through the long march of ages ; 'twas his task 
To shield from danger a Proven<;al maid, 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Mon. What ! should she be spared 
To keep that name from perishing on earth ? 
— I crossed them in their path, and raised my 

sword 
To smite her in her champion's arms. We fough* 
The boy disarmed me ! And I live to tell 
My shame, and wreak my vengeance ! 

Gui. Who but he 
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal ! Hath not the traitor stil 
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence. 
To win us from our purpose ? All things seeir 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Mon. Know you not there came. 
E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci 
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings 
Of all our purposed deeds ? And have wo no<- 
Proof, as the noonday clear, that Raircond loves 
The sister of that tyrant ? 

Pro. There was one 
Who mourned for being childless ! Let him n ni 
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join 
The revelry ! 

Mon. (apart.) You shall be cliildless too'. 

Pro. Was't you, Montalba ! — Now rejoice, 
say ! 
There is no name so near you that its stains 
Should call the fevered and indignant blood 
To your dark cheek ! But I will dash to earti 
The Aveight that presses on my heart, and the* 
Be glad as thou art. 



tzo 



THE VESPERS OF PALJ1.RMO. 



Mon. What means this, my lord r 
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien ? 

Pro. Why, should not all be glad who have 
no sons 
C) tarnish thair blight name ? 

Mw/. I am not used 
To Dear with mockery. 

Pro. Friend ! By yon high heaven, 
I mock thee not ! 'Tis a proud fate to live 
A.l< ne and unallied. Why, what's alone ? 
A. word whose sense is — free ! — Ay, free from all 
The venomed stings implanted in the heart 
By those it loves. O, I could laugh to think 
O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, 
When the word comes — "A son is born ! " — 

A S071 ! 
They should say thus — "He that shall knit 

your brow 
To furrows, not of years — and bid your eye 
Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its 

shame, 
Is born, and so rejoice ! " Then might we feast, 
And know the cause ! Were it not excellent ? 

Mon. This is all idle. There are deeds to do : 
A.rouse thee, Procida ! 

Pro. Why, am I not 
Calm as immortal justice ! She can strike, 
And yet be passionless — and thus will I. 
I know thy meaning. Deeds to do ! — 'tis well. 
They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth: 
There is a youth who calls himself my son. 
His name is Raimond — in his eye is light 
That shows like truth — but be not ye deceived ! 
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit 
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see 
The strength which girds our nature. Will not 

this 
Be glorious, brave Montalba ? Linger not. 
Ye tardy messengers ! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt GuiDO afid others. 
Is not this well ? 

Mon. 'Tis nobla Keep thy spirit to this j^roud 
height — 
[Aside.) And then be desolate like me. My woes 
V/ill at the thought grow light. 

P70. What now remains 
To be prepared ? There should be solemn pomp 
To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts 
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs 
From cold inquiring eyes ; and it must be 
A.mplc and rich, that so their gaze may not 
♦ilxplore what lies beneath. [Exit Pkocida. 

Mon. Now this is well ! 
-I hae this Procida ; lor he hath won 



In all our councils that ascendency 

And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should 

have been 
Mine by a thousand claims. Had he the strength 
Of wrongs like mine r No ! for that name - - 

his country — 
He strikes ; my vengeance hath a deeper fount : 
But there's dark joy in this ! — And fate hath 

barred 
My so.ul from every other. [Exit Montai £.x 

Scene II. — A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruiru 
of an Aricient Temple. 

Constance, Anselmo. 

Con. 'Tis strange he comes not ! Is not this 
the still 
And sultry hour of noon ? He should have been 
Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice! 
— " No ! 'tis the shrill cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports 
Amidst them in the sun." Hark ! yet again ! 
No ! no ! Forgive me, father ! that I bring 
Earth's restless griefs and passions, to disturb 
The stillness of thy holy solitude : 
My heart is full of care. 

Ans. There is no place 
So hallowed as to be unvisited 
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go 
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenea 
Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts 
Will speak to them in whispers ? I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 

Co7t. Hark ! his step ! 
I know it well — he comes — my Raimond, 
welcome ! 

ViTTORiA enters. Constance shrinks back on per- 
ceiving her. 

O Heaven ! that aspect tells a fearful tale, 
j Vit. {not observing her.) There is a cloud of 

horror on my soul ; 
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, 
Even as an echo, following the sweet close 
Of some divine and solemn harmony : 
Therefore I sought thee now. O, speak to me 
Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound 
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart 
Sink, like a storm rebuked. 

Ans. What recent grief 
Darkens thy spirit thus ? 

Vit. I said not grief.. 
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not 
That which it hath been. In the liowere ivhict 

wreathe 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



2.V 



Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, 
Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now 
Have changed their nature : still, I say, rejoice ! 
There is a cause, Anselmo ! We are free — 
Free and avenged ! Yet on my soul there hangs 
i darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom 
Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, 
There is a cause. 

Ans. How say'st thou, we are free ? 
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, 
Some brief wild tumult ; but too v ell I know 
They call the stranger lord. 

Vit. Who calls the dead 
Conqueror or lord ? Hush ! breatlv it not aloud ; 
The wild -^^nds must not hear it ! Yet again, 
I tel. thee we are free ! 

A)is. Thine eye hath looked 
On fearful deeds, for still the> shadows hang 
O'er its dark orb. Speak ! I ? 3jure thee : say, 
y^ow hath this work been v,-rj'ight ? 

Vit. Peace ! ask me net ! 
Why shouldst thoic he?r i tale to send thy blood 
Back on its fount ? We cannot wake them now ! 
The storm is in my aoul, but they are all 
At rest ! — Ay, sweetly may the slaughtered babe 
By its dead mother sleep ; and warlike men. 
Who 'midst the slain have slumbered oft before, 
Making their shield their pillow, may repose 
Weil, now their toils are done. — Is't not enough ? 

Con. ^Merciful Heaven ! have such things 
been r And yet 
There is no shade come o'er the laugliing sky ! 
- I am an outcast now. 

Ans. O Thou whose ways 
Clouds mantle fearfully ! of all the blind 
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath. 
How much is ma7i the fiercest ! Others know 
Their limits — yes ! the earthquakes, and the 

storms. 
And the volcanoes ! — he alone o'erleaps 
The bounds of retribution ! Couldst thou gaze, 
Vittoria ! with thy woman's heart and eye. 
On such dread scenes unmoved ? 

V-.t. Was it for me 
I : stay th' avenging sw*ord ? No, though it 

pierced 
My very soul ! Hark ! hark ! what thrilling 

shrieks 
Ring through the air iround me ! Canst thou not 
Bid thtm be hushed ? O, look not on me thus ? 

Ans. <Iiady ! thy thoughts lend sternness to 
the looks 
Which are but sad ! Have all then perished ? all ? 
Was there no mercy ? 

Vit. Mercy ! it hath been 



A word forbidden as th' unhallowed names 

Of evil powers. Yet one there M-as who daieO 

To own the guilt of pity, and to aid 

The victims ! — but in vain. Of him nc moi 3 ' 

He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 

Will be his meed. 

Co7i. {^coming foricard.) O Heaven? — h.' 
name, his name ! 
Is it — it cannot be ! 

Vit. {starting.) Thou here, pale girl ! 
I deemed thee with the dead ! How hast thaa 

'scaped 
The snare ? Who saved thee, last of all thy rac*» 
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida ? 

Con. It is enough : 
NoAv the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. 
Must he too die ? 

Vit. Is it e'en so ? Why, then, 
Live on — thou hast the arrow at thy heart ! 
♦' Fix not on me thy sad reproacliful eyes — " 
I mean not to betray thee. Thou mayst live ! 
Why should Death bring thee his obliviou' 

balms ! 
He visits but the happy. Didst thou ask 
If Raimond too must die ? It is as sure 
As that his blood is on thy head, for thoti 
Didst win him to this treason. 

Con. When did men 
Call mercy treason f Take my life, but save 
My noble Raimond ! 

Vit. Maiden ! he must die. 
E'en now the youth b(;fore his judges stands ; 
And they are men who to the voice of prayei 
Are as the rock is to the murmured sigh 
Of summer waves ! — ay, though a father sit 
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. 
What wouldst thou ? 

Con, Mercy ! — 0, wert thou to plead 
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved j 
If thou hast ever loved — 

Vit. If I have loved ? 
It is that love forbids me to relent. 
I am what it hath made me. O'er ray soul 
Lightning hath passed and seared it. Could 1 

weep, 
I then might pity — but it will not be. 

Con. O, thou wilt yet relent ! for womaD 
heart 
Was formed to suffer and to melt. 

Vit. Away ! 
Why should I pity thee ? Thou wilt but provi 
What I have known before — and yet I live ! 
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne — 
The sick impatient yearning of the heart 



c32 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



For that Avhich is not ; and T;he weary sense 
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been 
Circled by death ; yes, all things may be borne ! 
All, save remorse But I will 7iot bow down 
My spirit to that dark power ; there %vas no 

guilt — 
A iselmo ! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt ? 

Ans. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience 
quicken thought, 
i.ending reproachful voices to a breeze, 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vit. Leave me in peace ! 
Is't not enough that I should have a sense 
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, 
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me 
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words. 
Old man, should gall me, too ? Must all conspire 
Against me ? — O thou beautiful spirit ! wont 
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, 
Where art thou vanished ? Was it not the thought 
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task. 
And -wilt thou now forsake me ? I must seek 
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance. 
Still may thy voice be in my twilight paths ; 

— Here I but meet despair ! [Exit Vittoria. 
Ans. {to Constance.) Despair not thou, 

My daughter ! He that purifies the heart 
With grief will lend it strength. 

Con. {endeavoring to rouse herself.) Did she 

not say 
That some one was to die \ 

Ans. I tell thee not 
Ihy pangs are vain — for nature will have way. 
Earth must have tears : yet in a heart like thine, 
Faith may not yield its place. 

Con. Have I not heard 
Some fearful tale ? — Who said that there should 

rest 
Blood on my soul ? What blood ? I never bore 
Hatred, kind father ! unto aught that breathes : 
Raimond doth know it well. Raimond ! — 

High Heaven ! 
It bursts upon me now ! And he must die ! 
For my sake — e'en for mine ! 

Ans. Her words were strange, 
Ajid tar proud mind seemed half to frenzy 

wrought ; 

— Perchance this may not be. 
Con. It must not be. 

Why do I linger here ? [She rises to depart. 

J"s. Where wouldst thou go? 

Coti. To give their stern and unrelenting hearts 
1 victim in his stead. 

A71S. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 
>r certain death ? 



Con. I may not falter now. 

— Is not the life of woman all bound up 
In her affections ? What hath she to do 
In this bleak world alone ? It may be well 
For man on his triumphal course to move. 
Uncumbered by soft bonds ; but we were bom 
For love and grief. 

Atis. Thou fair and gentle thing, 
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak 
Of tenderness or homage ! how shouldst thou 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the King of Terrors ? 

Co7i. There is strength 
Deep -bedded in our hearts, of which we reck 
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced 
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent 
Before her gems are found ? — 0, now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath no! 

shunned 
To look on death for me ! My heart hath given 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faitli 
As high in its devotion. [Exit Constance 

Atis. She is gone ! 
Is it to perish ? — God of mercy ! lend 
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save 
This pure and lofty creature ! I will follow — 
But her young footstep and heroic heart 
Will bear her to destruction, faster far 
Than I can track her path. [Exit Anselmo 

Scene III. — Hall of a public Building. 

Procida, Montalba, Guido, and others, seated as 
on a Tribunal. 

Pro. The morn lowered darkly ; but the sun 

hath now. 
With fierce and angry splendor, through the 

clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This our high triumph. — Lead the prisoner in 

Raimond is brought m, fettered and guarded. 
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 

— Is this man guilty ? — Look on him, Montalba 
Mon. Be firm. Should justice falter at a looR. 
Pro. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes are fil 

leted. 
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself - 
But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name — 
Speak ! thou art arraigned of treason. 

Raim. I arraign 
You^ before whom I stand, of darker guilt, 
In the bright face of heaven ; and your owj 

hearts 
Give echo to the charge Your very looks 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to 

shrink, 
With a perturlDed and haggard wdldness, back 
From the too-searching light. Why, what hath 

wrought 
''Shis change on noble brows r There is a voice 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands haA e coldly shed ! Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil with curdling veins. 
All thrilled by life's abhorrent consciousness, 
A.nd sensitive feeling of a murderer s presence. 
- Away ! come dow^n from your tribunal seat, 
£*u'5 off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, 
More than the pestilence. That I should live 
To see my father shrink ! 
Pro, Montalba, speak ! 
There's something chokes my voice — but fear 

me no^. 
Mon. If we must plead to vindicate our acts. 
Be it when thou hast made thine owm look clear. 
Most eloquent youth ! What answer canst thou 

make 
To this our charge of treason ? 

Raim. I will plead 
rhat cause before a mightier judgment throne, 
iVhere mercy is not guilt. But here I feel 
foo buoyantly the glory and the joy 
Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 
Th' embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before me glaring out. Why, I saw thee, 
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast, 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heav- 

ings. 
And thou, thy sword — O valiant chief ! — is 

yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced at 

once 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Was from her bosom drawn ! — Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn ! 

Gui. {aside.) I look upon his mien. 
And waver. Can it be ? My boyish heart 
Deemed him so noble once ! Away, weak 

thoughts ! 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were wme, 
From his proud glance r 

Pro. thou dissembler ! thou. 
So skilled to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! — look on me, and say, 
vVhose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
30 



And forge new fetters for th' indignant land ? 
Whose was ^Aw treachery? [Shows him pupen 
Who hath promised hert 
(Belike t' appease the manes of the dead) 
At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates. 
And welcome in the foe r Who hath done thi« 
But thou — a tyrant's friend ? 
Raim. Who hath done this ? 
Father ! — if I may call thee by that name — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whost 

smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. There^ 

perchance, 
May lurk what loves not light too strong, Foi 

me, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth that murderers niiy be trai 

tors, 
Even to each other. 

Pro. {to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue. 
And his eye quails not ! Is this innocence ? 
Mo)i. No ! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of 

crime. 

— Thou bear'st a gallant mien. But where v 

she 
^\Tiom thou hast bartered fame and life to save, 
The fair Provencal maid ? What ! know'st thou 

not 
That this alone w^ere guilt, to death allied ? 
Was't not our law that he who spared a foe 
(And is she not of that detested race r) 
Should henceforth be amongst us as a fo«» * 

— Where hast thou borne her ? speak ! 
Raim. That Heaven, whose ey^ 

Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her : she is safe. 

Pro. And by that word 
Thy doom is sealed. O God ! that I had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength 
And glory of my heart ! 

CoxsTANCE enters, and rtcshes to Raimond. 
Con. O, art thou found ? 
— "But yet, to find thee thus ! Chains, chain.* 

for thee . 
My brave, my noble love ! Off with these bonds \ 
Let him be free as air : for I am come 
To be your ^'ictim now. 

Raim. Death has no pang 
More keen than this. 0, wherefore art tho 

here ? 
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee 
Saved, and at peace. 

Con. At peace ! -And thou hast thought 



%u 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



fhus poorly {f my love ! But woman's breast 
Hath strengtli to suffer too. Thy father sits 
On this tribunal ; Raimond, which is he ! 

Raim. My father! who hath lulled thy gen- 
tle heart 
With that false hope ? Beloved ! gaze around — 
See if thine eye can trace a father's soul 
In the dark looks bent on us. 

fCoNSTANCE, after earnestly examining the coun- 
tenances of the Judges^ falls at the feet of 
Procida.] 

Con. Thou art he ! 
Nay, turn thou not aAvay ! for I beheld 
rhy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist 
Pass o'er thy trotibled eye ; and then I knew 
Thou wert his father ! Spare him ! take my 

life-! 
In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his. 
But yet mine all. O, he hath still to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raim. Constance, peace ! 
I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is ^s a broken reed. 

Con. {still addressing Procida.) 0, yet relent ! 
If 'twas his crime to rescue me — behold 
I come to be th' atonement I Let him live 
To crown thine age with honor. In thy heart 
There's a deep conflict ; but great Nature pleads 
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt 
yield ! 

— Thou art his father 1 

Pro. {after a _paw5e.) Maiden, thou'rt de- 
ceived ! 
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature 
Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not 
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son ? 

— My son ! Ay ! thus his mother proudly 

smiled — 
Cut she was noble ! Traitors stand alone. 
Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus ? 

— Bear her away ! 

Haim. {starting forward.) And whither? 

Mon. Unto death. 
Why should she live, when all her race have 
perished ? 

Con. {sifiking into the arms of Raimond.) 
Raimond, farewell ! O, when thy star hath 

risen 
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved ! 
I died for thee. 

Eaim. High Hea-"^ri I thou seest these things, 
Arid yet endur'st them ! Shalt thou die for me. 
Purest and loveliest being ? — but our fate 
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold — 



Her deep blue eyes are closed : shwld tlus be 
death ? 

— If thus, there yet were mercy 1 Fathex 

father ! 
Is thy heart human ? 

Pro. Bear her hence, I say 1 
Why must my soul be torn ? 

Anselmo enters^ holding a Crucifix. 

Ans. Now, by this sign 
Of Heaven's prevailing love ! ye shall not hang 
One ringlet of her head. How ! is there not 
Enough of blood upon your burdened souls ? 
Will not the visions of your midnight couch 
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap 
Crime upon crime ? Be ye content : youi 

dreams. 
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet 
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, 
E'en though this maid be spared ! Constance, 

look up ! 
Thou shalt not die. 

Raim. O, death e'en now hath veiled 
The light of her soft beauty. Wake, my love ! 
Wake at my voice ! 

Pro. Anselmo, lead her hence, 
And let her live, but never meet my sight. ^ 

— Begone ! my heart will burst. 
Raim. One last embrace I 

— Again life's rose is opening on her cheek ; 
Yet must we part. So love is crushed on earth I 
But there are brighter worlds ! — Fareweli, 

farewell ! 

[fle gives her to the care of Axselmo 
Con. {slowly recovering.) There was a voic« 
which called me. Am I not 
A spirit freed from earth ? Have I not passed 
The bitterness of death ? 
Ans. O, haste away ! 

Co7i. Yes ! Kaimond calls me. He too is re- 
leased 
From his cold bondage. We are free at ihst, 
And all is well. Away ! 

[She is led out by Anselmo 
Raim. The pang is o'er, 
And I have but to die. 
Mon. Now, Procida, 
Comes thy great task. Wake ! summon to thinf 

aid 
All thy deep soul's commanding energies ; 
For thou — a chief among us — must pronounci 
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. 
Pro. Ha ! ha ! Men's hearts should be ol 
softer mould 
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



23« 



fheir children then with an unfaltering voice, 
A.nd we must tremble thus ! Is it not said 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
■^o full of days ? 

Mon. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Pro. Ay, thou say'st right. There yet are 
souls which tower 
A-8 .andmarks to mankind. "Well,what's the task ? 

— There is a man to be condemned, you say ? 
[s he then guity ? 

AIL Thus we deem of him, 
vVith one accord. 
Pro. And hath he nought to plead ? 
Raim. Nought but a soul unstained. 
Pro. \\Tiy, that is little.' 
I Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems 
them, 
And conscience may be seared. But for this 

sentence ! 
~ Was't not the penalty imposed on man, 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die? 

— It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 
Obey Heaven's mandate when we cast dark souls 
To th' elements from among us. Be it so ! 
Such be his doom ! I have said. Ay, now my 

heart 
Is girt with adamant, whcbe cold weight doth 

press 
its gaspings do\\Ti. Off! let me breathe in 

freedom ! 

— Mountains are on my breast ! [He sinks back. 
Man. Guards, bear the prisoner 

Back to his dungeon. 

Raim. Father ! O, look up ; 
Thou art my father still ! 

Gwi. {leaving the tribimal, throws himself on the 
neck of Raimoxd.) O Raimond, Raimond ! 
If it should be that I have wronged thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me ! 

Raim. Friend of my young days, 
So may all-pitying Heaven ! [Raimond is led out, 

P7-0. AVhose, voice was that ? 
Where is he ? — gone ? Now I may breathe 

once more 
U the free air of heaven. Let us away. 

[Exeunt omnes. 

ACT V. 

SoXNE I. — A Prison dimly lighted, 

Raimond sleeping. Procida enters. 

Pro. {gazijig xipoii him earnestly.) Can he 
rhen sleep ? Th overshadowing night hath 
wrapped 



Earth at her stated hours ; the stars have set 
Their burning watch, and all things hold theij 

course 
Of wakefulness and rest ; yet hath not sl©-^ > 
Sat on mine eyelids since — but this avails not ! 
And thus he slumbers ! «* "Why, this mien doth 

seem 
As if its soul were but one lofty thought 
Of an immortal destiny ! " His brow 
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heaven 
Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond ! wake ! 
Thy rest is deep. 

Raim. {starting up.) My father ! Wherefori" 
here ? 
I am prepared to die, yet would I not" 
Fall by thy hand. 

Pro. 'Twas not for this I came. 

Raim. Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty 
brow , 

Why burns the troubled flush ? 

Pro. Perchance 'tis shame. 
Yes, it may well be shame ! — for I have strivcii 
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpowered 

— Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze. 
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. 
Arise, and follow me ; but let thy step 

Fall without sound on earth. I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 

Raim. What ! thou ! the austere. 
The inflexible Procida ! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still ! 

Pro. Upbraid me not ! 
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done — but I am weak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise ! and haste. 
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive ecursj 

must be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so lei us part 
In silence, and forever. 

Raim. Let him fly 
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast 
A\Tierein to shelter from the scofls of men ; 

— I can sleep calmly here. 
Pro. Art thou in love 

With death and infamy, that so thy choice 

Is made, lost boy ! when freedom courts thj 

grasp ? 
Raitn. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me 
There needs but flight. What should I bear froa 

this, 
My native land ? — A blighted name, to rise 
And part me, with its dark remembrances. 
Forever from the sunshine ! O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of i nobler destiny 



236 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here 
On earth my hopes are closed- 
Pro. Thy hopes are closed ! 
A,nd what were they to mine ? — Thou wilt not 

fly! 
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! Let fathers rear 
Their offspring henceforth as the free, wild birds 
Foster the'r young : when these can mount alone, 
Dissolving nature's bonds, why should it not 
Ba so with us? 

Raim. O father ! now I feel 
What high prerogatives belong to Death. 
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence, 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And, in its vast, obKvious folds, forever 
Give shelter to our faults." When I am gone, 
The mists of passion which have dimmed my 

name 
Will melt like daydreams ; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet unstained 
As a clear morning dewdrop. O, the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, 
And they should be my own ! 
Pro. Now, by just Heaven, 
I will not thus be tortured ! — Were my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. *• But in this wild 
Suspense — this conflict and vicissitude 

Of opposite feelings and convictions What ! 

Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
All spirits to my purpose ? have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy, 
From the dread mingling of their elements, 
Storms which have rocked the earth ? — and 

shall I now 
Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds ? " Look on me, boy ! 
GuUt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close, — O pitying Heaven ! 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raim. I will not plead. 
1 will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father ! in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Pro. O my son ! my son ! 
We will not part in wrath. The sternest hearts, 
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses, 
Hide something still round which their tendrils 
cling 



With a close grasp, unknown to those who drcst 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me ! 
The all which taught mo that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. And I mxist now hold on 
My desolate course alone ! Why, be it thus ! 
He that doth guide a nation's star should dwell 
High o'er the clouds, in regal solitude. 
Sufficient to himself. 

Raim. Yet, on the summit. 
When with her bright wings glory shadows thf «. 
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath. 
Yet might have soared as high. 

Pro. No, fear thou not ! 
Thou'lt be remembered long. The cankei worn 
O' th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raim. " O ! not thus — 
I would not thus be thought of." 

Pro. Let me deem 
Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth. 
Then would not haunt me as th' avenging powers 
Followed the parricide. Farewell, farewell ! 
I have no tears. O, thus thy mother looked, 
When with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile, 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death 

bed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raim. Now death has lost 
His sting, since thou belie v'st me innocent ! 

Pro. (wildly.) Thou innocent ! — Am I thy 
murderer, then ? 
Away ! I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men ! No ! I will tiot forgive thee ; 
A traitor ! What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins ? Let the earth drink it. 
Thou wouldst receive our foes ! — but they shall 

meet 
From thy perfidious lips a welcome cold 
As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul ! 

Raim. Father ! yet hear me ! 

Pro. No ! thou'rt skilled to make 
E'en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus ? 

[Going to leave the prison, he turns back fo* 
a moment. 

If there be aught — if aught — for which tl .:u 

need'st 
Forgiveness — not of me, but that dread Pow&i 
From whom no heart is veiled — delay thou not 
Thy prayer — time hurries on. 

Raim. 1 am prepared. 

Pi-o. 'Tis well. [Exit Prooida. 

Raim. Men talk of torture ! — Can they wreak 
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame 
Half the mind bears - and lives ? My spirit feeli 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



>j 



5ewilclered ; on its powers this twilight gloom 

Hangs like a weight of earth. — It should be 
morn ; 

Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven's bright 
sun 

Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dun- 
geon, 

la'Jing of hope and mercy ! 

[Exit into an inner cell. 

Scene II. — A Street of Palermo. 
Many Citizens assembled. 

ist Cit. The morning breaks ; his time is al- 
most come : 
Will he be led this way ? 

2d Cit. Ay, so 'tis said. 
To die before that gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in ! 

Zd Cit. 'Twas a vile plot ! 
And yet I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the 

sounds 
r the air last night ? 

2d Cit. Since the great work of slaughter, 
VVho hath not heard them duly at those hours 
Which should be silent ? 

Zd Cit. O, the fearful mingling, 
The terrible mimicry of human voices, 
[n every sound which to the heart doth speak 
Df woe and death : 

2d Cit. Ay, there was woman's shrill 
And piercing cry ; and the low, feeble wail 
Of dying infants; and the half-sappressed, 
Deep groan of man in his last agonies ! 
And, now and then, there swelled upon the 

breeze 
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far 
Than all the rest. 

\st Cit. Of our own fate, perchance. 
These awful midnight wailings may be deemed 
An ommous prophecy. Should France regain 
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have 
Stern reckoners to account with. — Hark ! 

[ The sound of trumpets heard at a distance. 

2d Cit. 'Twas but 
A rushing of the breeze. 

Zd Cit. E'en now, 'tis said, 
The hostile bands approach. 

[ The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer. 
2d Cit. Again ! that sound 
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells — 
fhey 00 me, they come ! 



PiiociDA enters. 
Pro. The foe is at your gates ; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet hii 

onset. 
Why are ye loitering here ? 

Cit. My lord, avo came 

Pro. Think ye I know not wherefore ? — 'twas 
to see 
A fellow-being die ! Ay, 'tis a sight 
Man loves to look on ; and the tenderpst hearti" 
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. 
For this ye came. What ! is our nature fierce. 
Or is there that in mortal agony 
From which the soul, exulting in its strength, 
Doth learn immortal lessons ? Hence, and arm ! 
Ere the night dews descend, ye will have seen 
Enough of death — for this must be a day 
Of battle ! 'Tis the hour which troubled soul* 
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings 
Which bear them up ! Arm ! arm ! 'tis fr^ 

your homes, 
And all that lends them loveliness — Away 

[Exeun. 

Scene III. — Prison of Raimond. 
Raimond, Anselmo. 

Raim. And Constance then is safe ! Hep.vt 
bless thee, father ! 
Good angels bear such comfort. 

Ans. I have found 
A safe asylum for thine honored love. 
Where she may dwell untU serener days. 
With St. Rosalia's gentlest daughters — those 
"WTiose hallowed office is to tend the bed 
Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul 
With their soft hymns : and therefore are they 

called 
** Sisters of Mercy." 

Raim. O, that name, my Constance ! 
Befits thee well. E'en in our happiest days, 
There was a depth of tender pensiveness 
Far in thine eyes' dark azure, speaking ever 
Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace ? 

Ans. Alas ! what should I say ? 

Raim. Why did 1 ask, 
Knowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of her young heart's afiections ? O, the thougi t 
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams, 
Which should have been so tranquil ! — and 

her soul. 
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of Iot s. 
Even unto death will sicken. 

Ans. All that faith 



238 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Can yield of comfort shall assuage her woes ; 
A.nd still, whate'cr betide, the light of heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son ! 
Is thy young spirit mastered, and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change ? 

Eaim. Ay, father ! of my brief remaining task 
The least part is to die ! And yet the cup 
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips. 
Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose 

proud name 
Is — glory ! O, my soul, from boyhood's morn, 
Halh nursed such mighty dreams ! It was my 

hope 
To leave a name, whose echo from th' abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds 
Into the far hereafter ; there to be 
A trumpet sound, a voice from the deep tomb, 
Murmuring — Awake ! — Arise ! But this is 

past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame 
To &\ee^ forgotten in the dust ; but now — 
God ! — th' undying record of my grave 
Will be — Here sleeps a traitor ! — One whose 

crime 
Was — to deem brave men might find nobler 

weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Ans. O my son ! 
Subdue these troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst 

not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will 

hang 
Th' avenging shadows, which the bloodstained 

soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Rami. Thou'rt right. I would not. 
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart, 
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that still and passive fortitude, 
Which is but learned from suffering. Would 

the hour 
To hush these passionate throbbings were at 

hand ! 
Ans. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not 

heard 
— But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon depths. The foe hath 

reached 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior men, are marshalled, and gone forth. 
In that high hope which makes realities, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 
Ra\m. {starting up ) They are gone forth! 

mv father leads them on ! 



All — all Palermo's youth ! No ! one is left. 
Shut out from glory's race ! They are goiv* 

forth ! 
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad — 
It burns upon the air ! The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior plumes, the proud white 

foam 
Of battle's roaring billows ! On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 'tis the tiush. 
The lightning shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, and the broad fuU blaze 
Of helmets in the sun ! The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorpng shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane 
As a triumphant banner ! Such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 

Ans. Alas ! be calm ! 
To the same grave ye press — thou that uosl 

pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raim. Ay ! Thou canst feel 
The calm thou wouldst impart ; for unto thee 
All men alike, the warrior and the slave, 
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on 
To the same bourn. Yet call it not the same : 
Their graves who fall in this day's fight will be 
As altars to their country, visited 
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths 
And chanting hymns in honor of the dead : 
Will mine be such ? 

ViTTORiA rushes in wildly, as if pursuea. 

Vit. Anselmo ! art thou found ? 
Haste, haste, or all is lost ! Perchance thy voice, 
Whereby they deem Heaven speaks, thy lifted 

cross. 
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, 
Or shame them back to die. 

Ans. The fugitives ! 
What words are these i The sons of Sif'fij 
Fly not before the foe ! 

Vit. That I should say 
It is too true ! 

Ans. And thou — thou bleedest,* XAy ! 

Vit. Peace ! heed not me Avhen Sicily is lost ! 
I stood upon the walls, and watched our bands, 
As, with their ancient royal banner spread, 
Onward they marched. The combat was Ihi 

gun. 
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men 
Had sealed their freedom with tlieir blood ■ 

when, lo ! 
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



2a» 



Raim. His country's curse 
Rest ou the slave forever ! 

Vit. ITien distrust, 
111 en of their noble leaders, and dismay, 
That swift eontagi^-n, on Palermo's bands 
Came like a deadly blight. They fled ! — O 

shame ! 
E'en now they fly ! Ay, through the city gates 
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams 
Pursued their winged steps ! 

Raim. Thou hast not named 
Their chief — Di Procida — he doth not fly ! 

Vit. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils, 
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives : 
But all in vain ! The few that breast the storm, 
With Guido and Montalba by his side, 
Fight but for graves upon the battle field. 

Raim. And I am here ! Shall there be power, 
O God! 
Tn the roused energies of fierce despair, 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains ? 
for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vit. [after gazing upon him earnestly.) Why, 
'twere a deed 
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida ! 
rhou art no traitor ! — from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! Arise ! go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail, 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now. [She sinks back against a pillar. 

A71S. O Heaven ! the lifeblood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow 

dim. 
Who hath done this ? 

Vii. Before the gates I stood. 
And in the name of him, the loved and lost. 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the 

foe, 
Fraught with my summons to his viewless home. 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Am. Yet, O yet, 
ft may not be too late. Help, help ! 

Vit. (to Raimo7id.) Away ! 
Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty ! 

Attendants enter. 

Haste, be those fetters riven ! TJnbar the gates. 
And set the captive free ! 
The Attendants seem to hesitate. Know ye not 
her 



Who should have worn your country's dia- 
dem ? 

Att. lady ! we obey. 

[ JJieg take off Raimond's chains. He apringi 
tip exultingly. 

Raim. Is this no dream ?' 
Mount, eagle ! thou art free ! Shall I then die 
Not 'midst the mockery of insulting crowds. 
But on the field of banners, where the brave 
Are striving for an immortality ? 
It is e'en so ! Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vit. Away, be strong ! 
And let thy battle word, to rule the storm. 
Be — Conradi?i. [He rushes oui 

O for one hour of life. 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting ehGv.t 
Of victory ! It will not be ! A mightier povva? 
Doth summon me away. 

Aiis. To purer worlds 
Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vit. Yes ! /<e is there, 
All glorious in, his beauty ! — Conradin ! 
Death i^arted us, and death shall reunite ! 
He will not stay — it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. [She did 

Ans. She is gone ! 
It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, Heaven 
[He kneels beside hei 

Scene TV. — Before the Gates of Palermo. 

Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates. 

Voices, (without.) Montjoy ! Montjoy ! St 
Denis for Anjou ! 
Provencals, on ! 

Sicilians. Fly, fly, or aU is lost ! 

Raimond appears in the gateway armed, and car 
ryi7ig a banner. 
Raim. Back, back, I say ! ye men of Sicily ! 
All is not lost ! O, shame ! A few brave heai ti 
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breast* 
Against the rush of thousands, and sustained, 
And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man. 
Still to be called so, hath achieved such deeds 
As heaven and earth have marvelled at ; anf 

souls. 
Whose spark yet slumbers w'ith tho df ys to come 
Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus 
Freedom from race to race ! Back ! or prepare 
Amid?t your hearths, your bowers, yoiir ven 

shrines. 



240 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



To bleed and die in vain f Turn ! — follow me ! 

Conradin, Conradin ! " — for Sicily 
His spirit fights ! Remember '• Conradin ! " 

[ They begin to rally round him. 
\y, this is M'ell ! — Now, follow me, and charge I 
[ The Provencals rush in, but are repulsed by 
the Sicilians. — Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Part of the Field of Battle. 
MoN'JALBA enters wounded, and supported by Rai- 
MOND, whose face is concealed by his helmet. 
Raitn. Here rest thee, warrior. 
Mo7i. Rest ! ay, death is rest, 
inu such will soon be mine. But, thanks to tnee, 
L shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian ! 
These lips are all unused to soothing words, 
Or I should bless the valor which hath won, 
For my last hour, the proud free solitude 
Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy 
name ? 
Raim. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Mont- 
alba, 
jraze — read it thus ! 

[He lifts the visor of his helmet. 
Mon. Raimond di Procida ! 
Raim. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter 
hate • 
But fare thee well Heaven's peace be with 

thy soul ! 
I must away. One glorious effort more, 
And this proud field is won. [Exit Raimond. 
3Ion. Am I thus humbled ? 

How my heart sinks within me ! But 'tis Death 
(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued 
My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome ! 
That youth — 'twas in his pride he rescued me ! 
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved 
His fearless scorn. Ha ! ha ! but he shall fail 
To melt me into womanish feebleness. 
There I still bafiie him — the grave shall seal 
My lips forever — mortal shall not hear 
Montalba say — " Forgive ! " [He dies. 

Scene VI. — Another part of the Field. 
Procida, Guido, and other Sicilians. 
Pro. The day is ours ; but he, the brave un- 
known. 
Who turned the tide of battle — he whose path 
Was victory — who hath seen him ? 

Alberti is brought in wounded and fettered. 
Alb. Procida! 

Fro. Be silent, traitor ! Bear him from my 
sight, 
irnto your deepest dungeons 



Alb. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word 
Ere my voice fail — thy son 

Pry. Speak, speak ! 

Alb. Thy son 
Knows not a thought of guilt. That traitoroui 

plot 
Was mine alone. [He is led away. 

Pro. Attest it, earth and heaven ! 
My son is guiltless ! Hear it, Sicily ! 
The blood of Procida is noble still ! 
My son ! He lives, he lives ! His voice shall speak 
Forgiveness to nis sire ! His name shall cast 
Its brightness' o'er my soul ! 

Gxii. O day of joy ! 
The brotiicr of my heart is worthy still 
The lofty iiame he bears ! 

Anselmo enters. 

Pro, Anselmo, welcome ! 
In a glad hour we meet ; for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Ans. And viecorious ! By his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Pro. How ! — the unknown 

Ans. Was he ! 
Thy noble Raimond ! — by Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Pro. Now my cup 
Of joy too brightly mantles ! Let me press 
My warrior to a father's heart — and die ; 
For life hath nought beyond. Why comes he 

not? 
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy ! 

Ans. Temper this proud delight. 

Pro. What means that look ? 
He hath not fallen ? 

Ans. He lives. 

Pro. Away, away ! 
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp 
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour 
Atone for all his wrongs ! [Exeunt 

Scene VII. — Garden of a Convent. 
Raimond is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants^ 

Raim. Bear me to no dull couch, but let 
me die 
In the bright face of nature ! Lift my hehn 
That I may look on heaven. 

\st Att. {to 2d Attendant.) I/ay him to rest 
On this green sunny bank, and I will call 
Some holy sister to his aid ; but .hou 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO 



241 



Return unto the field, for high-born men 
There need the peasant's aid. 

[Exit 2d Attendajit. 
{To Raim.) Here gentle hands 

Shall tend thee, warrior ; for, in these retreats, 
They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care 
Of all that suffer. Mayst thou live to bless them ! 
[Exit 1st Attendant. 
Raim. Thus have I wished to die ! 'Twas a 
proud strife ! 
My father blessed th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Blessed him, alas ! because unknown ;) and 

Guido, 
Beside him bravely struggling, called aloud, 
«* Noble Sicilian, on ! " O, had they deemed 
'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurned 
Mine aid, though 'twas deliverance ; and their 

looks 
Had fallen like blights upon me. There is on.>, 
Whose eye ne'er turned on mine but its blue light 
Grew softei", trembling through the dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness ! O, might the soul, 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish ! 
- Is't not her voice ? 

DONSTANCE enters speaking to a Nun, who turns 
into another path. 
Con. O, happy they, kind sister ! 
Whom tl us ye tend ; for it is theirs to fall 
With brave men side by side, when the roused 

heart 
Beats proudly to the last ! There are high souls 
Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied ! 
[She approaches Raimond. 

Young warrior, is there aught Thou here, 

my Raimond 

Thou here — and thus ! 0, is this joy or woe ? 

Raim. Joy, be it joy! my own, my blessed love ! 

E'en on the grave's dim verge. Yes ! it is joy ! 

My Constance ! victors have been crowned, ere 

now, 
With the green shining laurel, when their brows 
Wore death's own impress — and it may be thus, 
E'en yet, with me ! They freed me, when the foe 
Had half prevailed, and I have proudly earned. 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms. 

Con. O, speak not thus — to die ! 
These wounds may yet be closed. 

[She attempts to bind his wounds. 
Look on me, love ! 
Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien — 
'Tis full of hope ! and from thy kindled eye 
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray 
Seems born to be immortal ! 
31 



Raim. 'Tis e'en so ! 
The parting soul doth gather aU her fires 
Around her ; all her glorious hopes, and dreams, 
And burning aspirations, to illume 
The shadowy dimness of th' untrodden path 
Which lies before her ; and encircled thus, 
A while she sits in dying eye.^, and thence 
Sends forth her bright farewell , Thv gentle caret 
Ar3 vain, and yet I bleos them 

Co7i. Say not vain ; 
The dying look not thus. Wo shall net part ! 

Raim. I have seen Death ere now, and known 
him wear 
FuU many a changeful aspect. 

Con. O, but none 
Radiant as thine, my w^arrior ! ITiou wilt live ! 
Look round thee ! all is sunshine. Is not thiis 
A smiling world ? 

Raim. Ay, gentlest love ! a world 
Of joyous beauty and magnificence, 
Almost too fair to leave ! Y'et must we tame 
Our ardent hearts to this ! O, weep thou not 
There is no home for liberty, or love, 
Beneath these festal skies ! Be not deceived ; 
My way lies far beyond ! I shall be soon 
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal 

weeds 
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust. 
Forgets not how to love ! 

Co7i. And must this be ? 
Heaven, thou art merciful ! — O, bid our scuis 
Depart together ! 

Raim. Constance ! there is strength 
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved 
Nobly, for me : arouse it once again ! 
Thy grief unmans me — and I fain would meet 
That which approar>ies, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe. 
— It is upon me now ! 

Con. I will be calm. 
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, 
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, 
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There v 
A world (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight 
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there 
I shall be with thee soon ! 

Phocida and Anselmo enter. Procida, on tee- 
ing Raimond, starts back 

Ans. Lift up thy head, 
Brave youth, exultingly ! for lo ! mine hour 
Of glory conies I O, doth it come too late? 
E'en now the false Alberti hath confessed 
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doomt>' 
To be th' atonement. 



tl2 



ANNOTATIONS ON THE VESPERS DF PALEHMO. 



Raim. 'Tis enough ! Rejoice, 
Rejoice, my Constance ! for I leave a name 
O'er- which thou mayst weep proudly ! 

[He sinks back. 
To thy breast 
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touched my veins. 

Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond ? 
Alas ! thine eye grows dim ; its wandering 

glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Raim. Haste, haste, and tell my father 
I was no traitor ! 

Pro. {rushing fortcard.) To thy father's heart 
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs — return ! 
Speak to me, Raimond ! — thou wert ever kind. 
And brave, and gentle ! Say that all the past 
Shall be forgiven ! That word from none but 

thee 
My lips e'er asked. — Speak to me once, my boy. 
My pride, my hope ! And it is with thee thus ? 
Look on me yet ! — O, must this woe be borne ? 
Raim. Off with this weight of chains ! it is 
not meet 
For a crowned conqueror ! — hark ! the trum- 
pet's voice ! 

[A sound of triumphant music is heard grad- 
ually approaching. 
Is't not a thrilling call ? What drowsy spell 
Benumbs me thus ? — Hence ! I am free again ! 
Now swells your festal strains — the field is 

won! 
Sing to me glorious dreams. [He dies. 

Ans. The strife is past ; 
There fled a noble spirit ! 

Con. Hush ! he sleeps — 
Disturb him not ! 

Ans. Alas ! this is no sleep 
From which the eye doth radiantly unclose : 
Bow down thy soul, for earth-y hope is o'er ! 

'^ The music continues appproaching. Guido 
enters with Citizens and Soldiers. 

Jui. The shrines are decked, the festive 
torches blaze — 
\\Tiere is our brave deliverer? We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor ! 

Ans. Ye come too late. 
The voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. [The music ceases. 

Pro. {after a pause. ) Is this dust 
£ look on — Raimond ? 'Tis but a sleep ! — a 

smile 
' In his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake ! 



God ! and this was his triumphant day ! 
My son, my injured son ; 

Con. {starting.) Art thou his father I 

1 know thee now. — Henee ! with thy dark stenj 

eye. 
And thy cold heart ! Thou canst not wake him 

now ! 
Away ! he will not answer but to me — 
For none hke me hath loved him ! He is mint; 
Ye shall not rend him from me. 

Pro. O, he knew 
Thy love, poor maid ! Shrink from me row n;- 

more ! 
He knew thy heart — but who shall tell him now 
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony. 
Of my suppressed affection ? I have learned 
All his high worth in time to deck his grave. 
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe 
To force an answer from the viewless world 
Of the departed ? Raimond ! — speak ! — for- 
give ! 
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer ! hear ! 
— Why, what a world is this ! Truth ever 

bursts 
On the dark soul too late : and glory crowTis 
Th' unconscious dead. There comes an hour to 

break 
The mightiest hearts ! — My son ! my son ! is 

this 
A day of triumph ! Ay, for thee alone ! 

[He throws himself upon the body of Raimond. 
Curtain falls. 

ANNOTATIONS ON THE " VESPERS OF PALERMO." 

" The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatu 
productions of our author. The period in which the scene is 
laid is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The 
whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of 
moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings 
The hero is an enthusiast for glorj', for liberty, and for vir 
tue : and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity Oi 
his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubt 
ful, rests the interost of the plot. It is worthy o : remaik, 
that some of its best parts have already found their way into 
an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus con 
tribute to give lessons of morality to those who are mosi 
susceptible of the interest of tragedy. 

" It may not be so generally remembered, that the sanr^ 
historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, 
about the same time that the English one was written, and 
by a poet now of great popularity in France. We hesitit** 
not to give the preference to Mrs. Hemans, for invention and 
interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to 
probability. Both the tragedies are written in a stjMe of 
finished elegance." — Professor Noaton, in J^Torth fmen- 
can Revieie, 1827. 

It was in 1821, as mentioned in the prefatory note, tha 
M rs. Hemans co uposed The Vespers of Polemic, and that th* 



A^MOTATIONS OJN IHE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



:'U 



MS, was handed over to the Managing Committee of Covent 
Sarden. Two years elapsed before her doubts regarding its 
fate were removed, and the result was as follows. In giving 
It here, let the reader remember, meanwhile, that we are 
sarried forward, for the space of time mentioned, beyond the 
pale of our literary chronology. 

" After innuni&Yable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties," 
writes her sister, the fate of the tragedy, so long in abey- 
ance, was now di >wing to a crisis. Every thing connected 
with its ai)proaching representation was calculated to raise 
the highest hopes of success. ' All is going on,' writes Mrs. 
Hemans on the 27th November, ' as well as I could possibly 
desire. Only a short time will yet elapse before the ordeal 
18 over. I received a message yesterday from Mr. Kemble, 
informing me of the unanimous opinion of the greenroom 
conclave in favor of the piece, and exhorting me to " be of 
foOQ courage." Murray has given me two hundred guineas 
♦or the copyright of the " tragedy, drama, poem, compo- 
eition, or book," as it is called in the articles which I signed 
yesterday. The managers made exceptions to the name of 
,' "rod la — why or wherefore I know not ; and out of several 
c Jiers which I proposed to them, The Vespers of Palermo 
has been finally chosen.' 

" Under these apparently favorable auspices, the piece was 
produced at Covent Garden on the night of December 12, 
1823, the principal characters being taken by Mr. Young, 
Mr. C. Kemble, Mr. Yates, Mrs. Bartlcy, and Miss F. H. 
Kelly. Two days had to elapse before the news of its re- 
ception could reach St. Asaph. Not only Mrs. Hemans's 
own family, but all her more immediate friends and neigh- 
oors, were wrought up to a pitch of intense expectation. 
Various newspapers were ordered expressly for the occasion. 
And the post office was besieged at twelve o'clock at night, 
by some of the more zealous of her friends, eager to be the 
first heralds of the triumph so undoubtingly anticipated. 
The buys had worked themselves up into an uncontrollable 
state of excitement, and were all lying awake ' to hear 
about mamma's play ; ' and perhaps her bitterest moment 
sf mortification was, when she went up to their bedsides, 
ft'hich she nerved herself to do almost immediately, to 
announce that all their bright visions were dashed to the 
ground, and that the performance had ended in all but a 
failure. The reports in the newspapers were strangely con- 
tradictory, and, in some instances, exceedingly illiberal : 
but all which were written in any thing like an unbiased 
tone concurred entirely with the private accounts, not mere- 
y of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced observers, 
in attributing this most unexpected result to the inefficiency 
of the actress who personated Constance, and who absolute- 
'y seemed to be under the influence of some infatuating 
spell, calling down hisses, and even laughter, on scenes the 
most pathetic and affecting, and, to crown all, dijing gra- 
tuitcusly at the close of the piece. The acting of Young and 
Kemble in the two Procidi was universally pronounced to 
have been beyond all praise, and their sustained exertions 
showed a determination to do all possible justice to the au- 
thor. It was admitted that, at the fall of the curtain, ap- 
olause decidedly predominated : still the marks of disappro- 
bation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers, 
who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, till 
another actress should have fitted herself to undertake the 
oart of Constance, when they fully resolved to reproduce it. 
Mrs. Hemans herself was very far from wishing that this fresh 
experiment should be made. ' Mr. Kemble,' writes she to 
* friend, ' will not hear of The Vespers being driven off the 
ftage. It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who is 
<ow ivnwell, shall be sufficientl) recovered to Icim her 



part; but I cannot tell you how I shrii.k, after the fteri 
ordeal through which I have passed, from such anothe 
ti.al. Mr. Kemble attributes the failure, w.thout the slight 
est hesitation, to what he delicately calls " a singularity of 
intonation in one of the actresses." I have also heard froii 
Mr. Milman, Mr. J. S. Coleridge, and several others, witk 
whom there is but one opinion as to the cause of the dis 
aster.' 

" Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a re^-ersf 
with feelings so completely untinged with bitterness, or wlrl. 
greater readiness to turn lor consolation to the kindness ajir 
sympathy which poured in upon her from every side. I 
would be doing her injustice to withhold her letter to Mi 
Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment- 

' Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823. 

" ' My dear Sir: It is difficult to part with the hopes 
of three years without some painful feelings ; but your kind 
letter has been of more service to me than I can attempt to 
describe. I will not say that it reviv,3s my hopes of success, 
because I think it better that I shonld fix my mind to pre 
vent those hopes from gaining any ascendency ; but it seta u 
so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointmen 
has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friend> 
from whom I have heard on this occasion express but one 
opinion. As to Miss Kelly's acting, and its fatal efTect on 
the fortunes of the piece, I cannot help thinking that it will 
be impossible to counteract the unfavorable impression 
which this must have produced, and I almost wish, as fai 
as relates to my own private feelings, that the attempt may 
not be made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on 
the subject. I have not heard from Mr. Kemble ; hut I have 
written both to him and to Mr. Young, to express my grafe 
ful sense of their splendid exertions in support of the place. 
As a female, I cannot help feeling rather depressed by ti'-e 
extreme severity with which I have been treated in the 
morning papers. I know not why this should be, for I am 
sure I should not have attached the slightest value to theii 
praise ; but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement fo» 
my temerity — for a female who shrinks from such things 
has certainly no business to write tragedies. 

" ' For your support and assistance, as well as that of my 
other friends, I cannot be too grateful ; nor can 1 ever con 
sider any transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given 
me the privilege of calling you a friend, and afforded me the 
recollection of so much long-tried kindness. — Ever believe 
me, ray dear sir, most faithfully, your obliged 

" ' F. Hema:?s.' 

" Notwithstanding the determination of the managers 
again to bring forward The Vespers, a sort of fatality seemed 
to attend upon it, and some fresh obstacle was continuali/ 
arising to prevent the luckless Constance from obtainine an 
eflicient representative on the London stage. Under these 
circumstances, Mr. Kemble at length confessed that he roiild 
not recommend the reproduction of the piece ; and Mrs 
Hemans acquiesced in the decision, with feelings whicb 
partook rather of relief than of disappointment. She nevei 
ceased to speak in the warmest terms of Mr. Kemble's lib- 
eral and gentlemanly conduct, both before and after the ap- 
pearance of the piece, and of his surpassing exertions af thi 
time of its representation. 

" It was with no small degree of surprise that, in tht 
course of the following February, she learnea, through th> 
medium of a letter from Mrs. Joanna Baillie,! that th« 

1 Though Mrs. Hemans had never the advantage of being per 
Bonally known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occagioof 



.ik 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE III. 



tragedy whs shortly to he represented at the Edinburgh thea- 
tre — Mrs. Hcnrj' Siddons undertaking the part of Con- 
stance. The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and 
the following particulars of its reception, transmitted by one 
of the zealous friends who had been instrumental in this 
arrangement, will prove how well their kindly intentions 
were tulfiUed : — 

* The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our 
«*-art sanguine expectations, and was announced for repe- 
tition on Wednesday, amidst thunders of applause. The 
actors seem to have done wonders, and everj' one appeared 
to strain every nerve, as if all depended on his own exer- 
tions. Vandenhoff was the elder, and Calcraft the younger 
Procida. The first recognition between father and son was 
acted by them to such perfection, that one of the most 
hearty and unanimous plaudits followed that ever was 
heard. ..... 

" 'Every reappearince of the gentle Constance won the 
spectators more and n^ore. The scene in the judgment hall 
carried off the audience into perfect illusion, and handker- 
chiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs. Siddons's searching 
the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild manner, as 
if to find Raimond's fa'her was to save him, was perfect 
She flew round the circle — went, as if distracted, close up 
to judge after judge — paused before Procida, and fell pros- 
trate at his feet. The effect was magical, and was mani- 
fested by three repeated bursts of applause.' 

" A neatly-turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though 

Interchange of letters which, from this time forward, was kept up 
between them, was regarded as one of the most valuable privileges 
she possessed. It was always delightful to her when she could 
love the character, as well as admire the talents, of a celebrated 
author; and never, surely, was there an example better fitted to 
call forth the willing tribute of veneration, both towards the woman 
and the poetess. In one of her letters to Mrs. Bailhe, Mrs. Hemans 
thus apologized for indulging in a strain of egotism, which the 



not declared, to be the production of Sir Walter F« '^a, wm 
recited by Mrs. H. Siddonu. When deference tc a ftujiU 
was there laid claim to, loud bursts of applause en-^.ued ; but 
when generosity to a stranger was bespoken, the house ab 
solutely rang with huzzas. 

" ' I knew how much you would rejoice,' wrote Mrs 
Hemans to a warm-hearted friend, ' in the issue of my 
Edinburgh trial ; it has, indeed, been most gratifying, and 
I think amongst the pleasantest of its results I may reckoi. 
a letter from Sir Walter Scott, of which it hag put me in 
possession I had written to thank him for the kindness he 
had shown with regard to the play, and hardly expected an 
answer ; but it came, and you would be delighted with its 
frank and unaffected kindliness. He acknowledges the epi- 
logue, " stuffed," as he says it was, " with parish jokes 
and bad puns ; " and courteously says, that his country folka 
have done more credit to themseh'es than to me, by their 
reception of The Vespers.^ 

" To another uncompromising champion she wrote : — 'I 
must beg you will " bear our ficulties meekly : " you really 
seem to be rather in an intox'cated state ; and if we indulge 
ourselves in this way, I am a'.raid we shall ha%-e something 
to sober us. I dare say I must expect some sharp criticism 
from Edinburgh ere all this is over ; but any thing which 
deserves the name of ci-iiicism I can bear. I believe I could 
point out more faults in The Vespers myself than any one 
has done yet.' " — Memoir, pp. 69-76. 



nature of their acquaintance might scarcely seem to justify : " The 
kindly warmth of heart which seems to breathe over aU youi 
writings, and the power of early association over my mind, make 
me feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to a friend." 
It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how 
graciously that " kindly warmth of heart " would be extended to 
those of her children, who are more fortunate than herself in 
enjoying the personal intercourse she would have prized so highly. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 
GEORGE THE THIRD. 

•Among many nations was there no king like him." — Nkhe- 

IflAH. 

"Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this 
iaj in Israel ?"— Samuel. 

Another warning sound ! The funeral bell, 

Startling the cities of the isle once more 
With measured tones of melancholy swell, 

Strikes on th' awakened heart from shore to 
shore. 
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, 

The chambers of our palaces hath trod ; 
And the long-suffering spirit of the just. 

Pure from its ruins, hath returned to God ! 
Vet may not England o'er her father weep : 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many and 
too deep. 



Vain voice of Reason, hush ! — they yet aaustflov, 

The unrestrained, involuntary tears ; 
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe, 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanished 
years. 
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief, 
Now^ that the exile of the sotd is past, 
And Death, blessed messenger of Heaven's re- 
Hef, 
Hath borne the wanderer to his reit at last ; 
For him eternity hath tenfold day : 
We feel, we know, 'tis thus — yet nature will 
have way. 

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak. 
Saddening the scene where once it noblj 
reigned, 

A dread memorial of the lightning stroke, 
Stamped with its fiery record, he remair od : 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEOKGE III. 



24o 



Around that shattered tree still fondly clung 
Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 

*'resh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung 
Li.xuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true; 

While England hung her trophies on the stem, 

That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious ! O, mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies ? 
His was the voice which roused, as from the 
tomb, 
The realm's high soul to loftiest energies ! 
His was the spirit o'er the isles which threw 
The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bosom, powerful to renew 
Each dying spark of pure and generous 
thought , 
The star of tempests ! beaming on the mast,' 
The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deep- 
ening fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his 
worth. 
Strength, as of inspiration, filled the land ; 
A young but quenchless flame went brightly 
forth, 
Kindled by him — who saw it not expand ! 
Such was the will of Heaven. The gifted seer, 
Who with his God had communed, face to 
face. 
And from the house of bondage and of fear. 

In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race ; 
He, through the desert and the wast^ their 

guide. 
Saw dimly from afar the promised land — and 
died. 

full of days and virtues ! on thy head 
Centred the woes of many a bitter lot ; 
Fathers have sorrowed o'er their beauteous 
dead, 
Eyes, quenched in night, the sunbeam have 
forgot ; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years. 
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at 
lengtl, ; 
But Pain for thee had filled a cup of tears. 

Where every anguish mingled all its strength ; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, 
And shadows deep around fell from th' Eter- 
nal's hand. 

1 The ditterini; meteor, like a star, which often appears 
•tout a ship during tempests ; if seen upon the mainmast, it 
te considered by the sailt rs as an omen of good weather. — 
See Dampii:r'3 Voyages. 



Then came the noon of glory, which thy dream* 

Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied , 
But what to thee the splendor of its beams r 
The ice- rock glcrvvs not 'midst the summer j 
pride ! 
Nations leaped up to joy — as streams that buist, 
At the warm touch of spring, their frojen 
chain, 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure onc« thej 
nursed, 
Roll in exulting melody again ; 
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts 
— but thine. 

O, what a dazzling vision, by the veil 

That o'er thy spirit hung, w^as shut from 
thee. 
When sceptred chieftains thronged with palm» 
to hail 
The crowning isle, th' anointed of the sea ' 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice — rich pageants glittered by. 
And stately revels imaged, in their miith. 

The old magnificence of chivalry. 
They reached not thee — amidst them, yet alone. 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy 
throne. 

Yet there was mercy still ! If joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude. 
Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pas 
o'er 

The silent limits of its soKtude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swelled on high 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain with dread solemnity ! 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom, 
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to thi 
tomb. 

And she who, tried lAxrough all the stoiTny past 

Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour — 

Watched o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last 

Sustained, inspired, by strong afi"ection'i 

power ; 

If to thy soul her voice no music bore — 

If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks that fondly would explore 
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
O, thou wert spared the pang that would havf 

thrilled 
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxioii' 
bosom stilled. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGL^ ill. 



Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's 
prime, 
Youth with its glory — in its fulness, age — 
ill, at the gates of their eternal chme, 
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrim- 
age ; 
The land wore ashes for its perished flowers, 
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, mean- 
while, 
Uidst wp.lk unconscious through thy royal tow^- 
ers. 
TliP on«» ^hat wept not in the tearful isle ! 
As a tired warrior, on his battle plain, 
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners 
and the slain. 

And who can tell what visions might be thine ? 
The stream of tho^^ght, though broken, still 



was pure 



Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might 
shine 
"Where earthly image would no more endure ! 
Though many a step, of once familiar sound. 

Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear, 
A.nd voices breathed forgotten tones around, 
Which that paternal heart once thrilled to 
hear : 
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 
To people boundless worlds, in its most wander- 
ing hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, creations of remorse ; 
Unstained by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course : 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss. 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's 
eye ; 
^nd, closing up each avenue of bliss, 

Murmur theii summons to ** despair and die." 
No ! e'en though joy depart, though reason 

cease. 
Still virtue's ruined home is redolent of peace. 

El;ey might be with thee still — the loved, the 
tried. 
The fair, the lost — they might be with thee 
still! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapor of terrestrial ill. 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was poured, 
*.3 passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 
Those forms, from us withdrawr — to thee 
lostored ! 



Spirits of holiness, in light revealeu, 
To commune with a mind whose souj'5^ >f tcaif 
was sealed. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds a>icve, 

Those viewless regions where the weary re^t*. 
Severed from earth, estranged from mortal love, 

Was thy rnysterious converse with the blest ? 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty ? — did their smiles rentM 
Those days of sacred and serene delight. 

When fairest beings in thy pathway grew ? 
O, Heaven hath balm for every wound it raakes^ 
HeaKng the broken heart ; it smites, but ne'ei 
forsakes. 

These may be fantasies — and this alone, 

Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure ; 
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own, 

Rest, in thy God immortally secure ! 
Enough for tranquil faith ; released from all 

The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thj 
brow, 
No cloud to dim, no fetter to inthrall, 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now ; 
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed. 
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, griefs tribute 
to the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind. 

Borne on the wings of morning to the skies, 
May cast one glance of tenderness behind 

On scenes once hallowed by its mortal ties. 
How much hast thou to gaze on ! All that lay 

By the dark mantle of thy soul concealed — 
The might, the majesty, the proud array 

Of England's march o'er many a noble field — 
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze cf light. 
Shine like some glorious land viewed from an 
Alpine height. 

Away, presumptuous thought ! Departed saia 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint. 

Seen from the birthplace of celestial day 
O, pale and weak the sun's reflected rays, 

E'en in their fervor of meridian heat. 
To him who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy se 
And thou mayst view, from thy divine abode. 
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God. 

And yet we mourn thee ! Yes, thy place is void 
Within our hearts ! there veiled thine imagf 
dwelt, 



ftTANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEOKGE III. 



But cherished still ; and o'er that tie destroyed, 
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must 
melt. 
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway 

Thousands were born who now in dust repose ; 

A.nd many a head, with years and sorrows gray, 

Wore youth's bright tresses when thy star 

arose ; 

Artd many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, 

Hath tilled our sphere with light, now to its 

source withdra^\Ti. 

Earthquakes have rocked the nations ; things 
revered, 
Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition reared 

His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 
But when the fires that long had slumbered, pent 

Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force, 
Bursting their prison house, each bulwark rent, 
And swept each holy barrier from their 
course. 
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava flood. 
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient land- 
marks stood. 

iJe they eternal ! — be thy children found 

Stili to their country's altars true like thee ! 
And while ♦* the name of Briton" is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and free, 
With the high feelings at the word which 
swell, 
To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's 
flame. 
Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so 
well, 
Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's 

dust. 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 

M. else shall pass away ! — the thrones of kings, 

Tlie very traces of their tombs, -^ypart ; 
Eut number not with perishable i,liings 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, 
Heirlooms from race to race ! And O, in days 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, 
iVhen our sons learn •♦ as household words " thy 
praist, 

fctill on thine offspring may tny spirit rest ! 



And many a name of that imperial Una, 
Father and patriot ! blend, in England's songs, 
with thine ! 

[" The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesly : 
unlike courtly themes in general, this is one of the deepesl 
and most lasting interest. Buried as the king had lo.'ig been 
in mental and visual darkness, and dead to the common joys 
of the world, his death, perhaps, did not occasion the shock, 
or the piercing sorrow, which we have felt on some othej 
public losses ; but the heart must be cold indeed tnai coul<' 
on reflection, regard the whole fortune and fate of thai ven 
erable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man, without a 
more than common sympathy. There was something in his 
character so truly national — his very errors were of so 
amiable a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, hie 
nature was so genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in hi? 
splendid court, amidst his large and fine family, so true a 
husband, so good a father, so safe an example — he so 
thoroughly understood the feelings, and so duly appreciated 
the virtues, even the uncourtly virtues of his subjects — 
and, with all this, the sorrows from Heaveii rained down 
upon his head in so ' pitiless and pelting a storm : ' all these 
— his high qualities and unparalleled sufferings — foro) 
such a subject for poetry, as nothing, we should imagine, but 
its difficulty and the expectation attending it, would prevent 
from being seized upon by the greatest poets of the day. We 
will not say that Mrs. Ilemans has filled the whole canvas 
as it might have been filled, but unquestionably her poem is 
beyond all comparison with any which we have seen on the 
subject ; it is full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads 
us up through all the dismal colorings of the foreground to 
that bright and consoling prospect which should close ever>- 
Christian's reflections on such a matter. An analysia of so 
short a poem is wholly unnecessary, and we have already 
transgressed our limits ; we will, therefore, give but one 
extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release our 
readers : — 

* Yet there was mercy still 1 If joy no more,' etc. 

" It is time to close this article, l Our readers will have 
seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much inter- 
ested by our subject. Who or what Mrs. Hemans is, we know 
not: we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity, 

' Tristia vitae 

Solatur cantu, ' 

If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncom- 
monly nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she j 
seems, from the tenor of her writ...gs, to bear about her a 
higher and a surer balsam than the praises of men, oi ever 
the ' sacred muse ' herself can impart. Still there is a 
pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even in a 
wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned ; and such fame &k 
may wait upon our decision, we freely and conscientious!)" 
bestow. In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure 
in thought and anguage : her later poems are of higher 
promise; they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic" — 
Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv.] 

1 Thin critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguishea 
editor. William GifFord, Esq., comprehended strictures on " Th« 
Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," "Tales and Illstori* 
Scenes in Verse," " Translations from Camoens," etc, Thf 8c«o 
tic," and " Staczai to the Memory of the late King." 



248 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



SECOND SERIES. 



[After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs. Hemans contemplated a wcon* 
»eries, although her design was never sc extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under th* 
lame title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to tliis period of our author's literarj' progress, we have ven 
hired aat only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, " for uniformity's sake."] 



THE MAREMMA. 

[** Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble 
family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was 
the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her 
husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and 
groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate 
resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the 
lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her 
husband brought her into the Maremma, which then, as 
now, was a district destructive of health. He never told 
his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so 
dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint 
or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, 
without answering her questions, or listening to her remon- 
strances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should 
destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she 
died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the 
dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived 
her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, 
n this incident, all the materials of an ample and very 
poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. 
He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain 
who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of 
Oampaldino ; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the 
rreacherj' of the House of Este ; the third was a woman un- 
known to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, 
'.urned towards him with these words : — 

' Recorditi di me ; che son la Pia, 
Sienna mi fe, diofecemi Maremma, 
Solii colui che inanellata pria 
Diaposando ra' avea con la sua gemma.' " 

PuKOATORio, cant V. 

^Edinburgh Review, No. Ivii.] 

TiiEEE are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 
Where glowing suns their purest light diffuse, 
Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, 
And Nature lavishes her warmest hues ; 
But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath — 
Away ! ner charms are but the pomp of Death ! 

He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling, 
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee 

throws ; 
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, 
With gentlest \v1us]xm- hires thee to repose ; 
A.nd the s.ft sounds that through the foliage 

sigi 
9ut woo ti •■*-. et 11 to slumber and to die. 



Mysterious danger lurks, a siren there, 

Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, 

But stealing o'er thee in the scented air, 

And veiled in flowers, that smile to deck thj 

tomb ; 
How may we deem, amidst their deep array, 
That heaven and earth but flatter to betray ? 

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure ! Can it be 
That these but charm us with destructive wiles i 
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee 
Danger is masked in beauty — death in smiles ? 
O, still the Circe of that fatal shore, 
Where she, the Sun's bright daughter, dwelt of 
yore! 

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, 

Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, 

And viewless blights o'er many a landscape 

sheds. 
Gay with the riches of the south, in vain ; 
O'er fairy bowers and palaces of state 
Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. 

And pillared halls, whose airy volonnades 
Were formed to echo music's choral tone. 
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, 
Peopled by sculpture's graceful forms alone • 
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves. 
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. 

And there, where marble nymphs, in ^eau*} 

gleaming, 
'Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rsa 
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming 
Of old Arcadia's woodland deities. 
Wild visions ! — there no sylvan powers con 

vene : 
Death reigns the genius of th' Elysian scene. 

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome ! that bsar 
Traces of mightier beings on your brow. 
O'er you that subtle »pirit of the air 
Extends thf> desert of his empire now ; 



THE MAREMMA. 



24! 



Broods o'er the \^Tecks of altar, fane, and dome, 
And makes the Ceesars' ruined halls his home. 

Youth, valor, beauty, oft have felt his power, 
His crowned and chosen victims : o'er their lot 
Ha'h fond affection wept — each blighted flower 
It. mm was loved and mourned, and is forgot. 
Btii one who perished left a tale of woe, 
Hect for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. 

A voice of music, from Sienna's walls. 
Is floating joyous on the summer air ; 
And there are banquets in her stately halls, 
And graceful revels of the gay and fair, 
And brilliant wreaths the altar have arrayed, 
Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest 
maid. 

To that young bride each grace hath Nature 

given 
Which glows on Art's divinest dream : her eye 
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven — 
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye ; 
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose 

form 
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colors 



But is she blest ? — for sometimes o'er her smile 
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast ; 
And in her liquid glance there seems a while 
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the 

past ; 
f et soon it flies — a cloud that leaves no trace, 
On the sky's azure, of its dwelling-place. 

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise 
Remembrance of some early love or woe, 
Faded, yet scarce forgotten — in her eyes 
Wakening the half-formdfi. tear that may not 

flow, 
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, 
Where still some pining thought comes darkly 

o'er our mirth. 

The world before her smiles — its changeful gaze 
Khehath not proved as yet ; her path seems gay 
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of 

praise 
Is still the joyous herald of her way ; 
A.nd beauty's light around her dwells, to throw 
O'er every scene its own resplendent glow. 

• An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci's picture of his wife, 
Mona Lisa, supposed to be the tost perfect imitation of 
mature ever eihibited in painting 
32 



Such is the young Bianca — graced with all 
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give ; 
Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall 
Such dreams as ne'er life's early bloom survive ; 
And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is 

fraught 
With sweetness, bom of high and heavenly 

thought. 

And he to whom are breathed her vows of faitl 
Is brave and noble — child of high descent, 
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, 
'Mid slaughtered heaps, the warrior's monu- 
ment ; 
And proudly marbhalled his carroccio's' way 
Amidst the wildest wreck of war's array. 

And his the chivalrous commanding mien. 
Where high-born grandeur blends with courtlv 

grace ; 
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, 
Of fiery passions, darting o'er his face. 
And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye — 
But e'en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashfti 

die. 

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, 
As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse ; 
And veil the workings of each darker feeling, 
Deep in his soul concentrating its force ; 
But yet he loves — O, who hath loved, nor known 
Affection's power exalt the bosom all its ow^ • 

The days roll on — and still Bianca's lot 
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem 
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot 
To wake her soul from life's enchanted dream ; 
And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear. 
It sheds but grace more intellectual there. 

A few short years, and all is changed ; her fate 
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o'ercast. 
Have jealous doubts transformed to wrath an J 

hate 
The love whose glow expression's power sur 

passed ? 
1.0 ! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom 
I'^ gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom 

O, can he meet that eye, of light serene. 
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth 
And view that bright intelligence of mien 
Formed to express but thoughts of loftiest wortL 

t A sort of consecrated war charitt 



£00 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign ? 
— How shall ho e'er confide in aught on earth 
again ? 

In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze, 
Transient, yet filled with meaning, stern and 

wild, 
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, 
Then turns away, and fixes on her child 
So dark a glance as thrills a mother's mind 
With some vague fear scarce owned, and unde- 
fined. 

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave 
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore, 
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave 
Gray rocks with foliage richly shadowed o'er. 
And sighing winds, that murmur through the 

wood. 
Fringing th^! beach of that Hesperian flood. 

Fair is that house of solitude — and fair 
The green Maremma, far around it spread, 
A sun-bright waste of beauty ; yet an air 
Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed, 
No human footstep tracks the lone domain, 
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. 

And silent are the marble halls that rise 
'Mid founts, and cypress walks, and olive groves : 
All sleep in sunshine 'neath cerulean skies. 
And still around the sea breeze lightly roves ; 
Yet every trace of man reveals alone, 
That there life once hath flourished — and is 
gone. 

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing. 
The summer air, deceit in every sigh. 
Came fraught with death, its power no sign re- 
vealing. 
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by ; 
And strains of mirth and melody have flowed 
Wl-ere stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. 

And thither doth her lord remorseless bear 
Bianca with her child. His altered eye 
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear. 
While his dark spirit seals their doom — to die ; 
^nd the deep bodings of his victim's heart 
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part. 

[t is the summer's glorious prime — and blending 
its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, 
Each tint of heave i \ipon its breast descending. 
Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, 



And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, 
That lovely shore of sviituae <ind light. 



Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breath- 
ing, 
Decked with young flowers the rich Marenim! 

glows. 
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing 
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, 
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom 
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. 

Yes ! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca ! fairest flower ! 
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale. 
Which, o'er thee breathing with insidious power, 
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale ; 
And fatal in its softness, day by day. 
Steals from that eye some trembling spark 
away. 

But sink not yet ; for there are darker woes. 
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring morn fad 

ing — 
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those 
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are 

shading ! 
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot ! 
'Tis agony — but soon to be forgot ! 

WTiat deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, 
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath. 
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, 
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of death ? 
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast 
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the 
last ! 

Such pangs were thine, young mother ! Thou 

didst bend 
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head ; 
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, 
Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed. 
And watch his patient, supplicating eye 
Fixed upon thee — on thee ! — who couldst no 

aid supply ! 

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe 
Through those dark hours : to thee the wind's 

low sigh. 
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow. 
Came like some spirit whispering — •' He must 

die ! " 
And thou didst vainly clas, him to the breast 
His young and sunny smile so oft with hop« 

had blest. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



25 > 



Tis past — that fearful trial ! — he is gone ! 
But thou, sad mourner ! hast not lon^ to weep ; 
The hour of nature's chartered peace comes on, 
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep. 
A few short sufferings yet — and death shall be 
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee. 

But ask not — hope not — one relenting thought 
From liim who doomed thee thus to waste away, 
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance 

fraught, 
tJioods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay ; 
A.nd coldly, sternly, silently can trace • 
The gradual withering of each youthful grace. 

4.ii5 yet the day of vain remorse shall come. 
When thou, bright victim ! on his dreams shalt 

rise 
As an accusing angel — and thy tomb, 
A martyr's shrine, be hallowed in his eyes ! 
Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, 
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs 

could sting. 

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven — for all on earth, 
Voung sufferer ! fades before thee. Thou art 

lone : 
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy 

birth, 
Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own ! 
It is our task to suffer — and our fate 
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. 

The season's glory fades — the vintage lay 
Through joyous Italy resounds no more ; 
But mortal loveliness hath passed away, 
Fairer than aught in summer's glowing store. 
Beauty and youth are gone — behold them such 
As death hath made them with his blighting 
touch ! 

The summer's breath came o'er them — and they 

died ! 
Boflly it came to give luxuriance birth, 
Called forth young nature in her festal pride. 
But bore to them their summons from the earth ! 
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, 
And wake to life and Hght all flowers — but these. 

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, 
lost and loveliest one ! adorns thy grave ; 
But o'er that humble cypress- shaded dwelling 
the dewdrops glisten and the wild flowers 



Emblems more meet, in transient light and 

bloom, 
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to 

the tomb ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL 

[The Secret Tribunal, 1 which attained such formidable 
power towards tlie close of the fourteenth century, is men 
tioned in history as an institution publicly known so early a« 
in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judge* 
were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremen- 
dous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, 
without exception, if they had committed any ofTence cog- 
nizable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation 
to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the 
accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put 
him to death wherever he might be met with. The proceed 
ings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with tht 
greatest mystery ; and though it was usual to summon a 
culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persona 
obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned 
without any citation. After condemnation, it was almosf 
impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free 
Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassms ie 
motion, who had sworn not to spare Uie life of their nearesl 
relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees 
of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should 
they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent 
of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sough: 
admission into the society ; there were Free Judges even 
amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and everj 
prince had some of their Order in his council. When a 
member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to 
seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of 
him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades 
for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making 
certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without 
asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person 
condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree ; but if 
circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard^ 
they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not 
been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the 
transactions of the Sag s or Seers (as they called tliemselves) 
were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by 
what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At 
length their power became so extensive and reiloubtable, 
that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite 
their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at 
length successful. 

The following account of this extraordinarj' association i» 
given by IMadame de Stael : — " Des juges myst^rieux, in- 
connus I'un k I'autre, toujours masques, et se rassemhlant 
pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoienl 
seulenient sur le poignard qu'ils enfon^oient dans le sein du 
coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. lis pr6- 
venoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les 
fenetres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur ! Alora 
l'infortun6 savoit que par-tout, dans I'etranger, dans son 
concitoyen, dans son parent menie, il pouvoit trouver son 
nieurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, 
toutetoit rempli par la presence invisible decette consciencii 
arm^e qui poursuivoit les crirainels. On con^oit corame»t 

1 See the works of Baron Bock and Professor Kramir. 



TALE:? AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



cette terrible institution poiivoit etre necessaire, dans un 
lemps ou chaqiie hoinme etoit fort centre tons, au lieu que 
tous doivent etre forts centre cliacun. 11 falloit que la jus- 
tice surprit le criminel avant qu'il put s'en defendre ; mais 
cette punitioii qui planoit dans les airs coinme une ombre 
vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le 
Bein meme d'un ami, frappoit d'une invincible terreur." — 
UAUcmagne, vol. ii.l 

Night veiled the mountains oi ' e vine, 
^d storms had roused the foaming Rhine, 
And, mingling with the pinewood's roar, 
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, 
WTiile glen and cavern to their moans 
Gave answer with a thousand tones: 
Ihen, as the voice of storms appalled 
The peasant of the Odenwald,* 
Shuddering he deemed, that, far on high, 
'Twas the wild huntsman rushing by, 
Riding the blast with phantom speed, 
With cry of hound and tramp of steed, 
While his fierce train, as on they flew, 
Iheir horns in savage chorus blew. 
Till rock, and tower, and convent round. 
Rang to the shrill unearthly sound. 

Yain dreams ! far other footsteps traced 
The forest paths, in secret haste ; 
Far other sounds were on the night. 
Though lost amidst the tempest's might, 
That filled the echoing earth and sky 
With its own awful harmony. 
There stood a lone and ruined fane. 
Far hi the Odenwald's domain, 
'Midst wood and rock, a deep recess 
Of still and shadowy loneliness. 
Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown, 
The wild flower waved o'er the altar stone, 
The night wind rocked the tottering pile. 
As it swept along the roofless aisle, 
For the forest boughs and the stormy sky 
Were all that minster's canopy. 

Many a broken image lay 
In the mossy mantle of decay, 
.\nd partial light the moonbeams darted 
O'er trophies of the long departed ; 
For there the chiefs of other days. 
The mighty, slumbered, with their praise ; 
'Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven 
A tribute to their bier had given. 
Long since a sound but the moaning blast 
Above their voiceless home had passed. 



1 TheOdenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoin- 
nj tlie territories of Darmstadt. 



— So slept the proud, e.nd with them all 

The records of their fame and fall ; 

Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest. 

Adorned the dwelling of their reSv, 

And emblems of the Holy Land 

Were carved by some forgotten hand. 

But the helm was Jjroke, the shield defaced. 

And the crest through weeds might scarce b« 

traced ; 
And the scattered leaves of the noit.' ere 

pine 
Half hid the palm of Palestine. 
So slept the glorious — lowly laid, 
As the peasant in his native shade ; 
Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rh}Tne, 
All that high deeds could w^in from time ! 

What footsteps move, with measured tir.Ad, 
Amid those chambers of the dead ? 
What silent, shadowy beings glide 
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, 
Peopling the wild and solemn scene 
With forms well suited to its mien? 
Wanderer, away ! let none intrude 
On their mysterious solitude ! 
Lo ! these are they, that awful band. 
The secret Watchers of the land. 
They that, unknown and uncontrolled. 
Their dark and dread tribunal hold. 
They meet not in the monarch's dome. 
They meet not in the chieftain's home ; 
But where, unbounded o'er their heads. 
All heaven magnificently spreads. 
And from its depths of cloudless blue 
The eternal stars their deeds may view ! 
Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod 
By roving foot are seldom trod ; 
Where'er the pathless forest wa^es, 
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves ; 
Where'er wild legends mark a spot 
By mortals shunned, but unforgot, 
There, circled by the shades of night, 
They judge of crimes that shrink from light 
And guilt, that deems its secret known 
To the One unslumbering eye alone, 
Yet hears their name with a sydden &t\,r*. 
As an icy touch had chilled its heart, 
For the shadow of th* avenger's hand 
Rests dark and heavy on the land. 

There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom. 
And woke the echoes of the tomb. 
As if the noble hearts beneath 
Sent forth deep answers to its breath. 



A TALE or THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 24; 


« When the midnight stars are burning, 


" Albert of Lindheim — to the skies 


A-nd the dead to earth returning ; 


The voice of blood against him cries ; 


When the spirits of the blest 


A brother's blood — his hand is dyed 


Rise upon the good man's rest ; 


With the deep stain of fratricide. 


When each whisper of the gale 


One hour, one moment, hath revealed 


iiids the check of guilt turn ptJe ; 


What years in darkness had concealed. 


Ir, the shadow of the hour 


But all in vain — the gulf of time 


That o'er the soul hath deepest power, 


Refused to close upon his crime ; 


Why thus meet we, but to call 


And guilt that slept on flowers sh^^ 


For judgment on the criminal ? 


know^ 


"Why, but the doom of guilt to seal, 


The earthquake was but hushed below ! 


And point th avenger's holy steel ? 


— Here, where amidst the noble dead, 


A fearful oath has bound our souls. 


Awed by their fame, he dare not tread * 


A fearful powder our arm controls ! 


Where, left by him to dark decay, 


■ There is an ear awake on high 


Their trophies moulder fast away. 


E'en to thought's whispers ere they die ; 


Around us and beneath us lie 


There is an eye whose beam pervades 


The relics of his ancestry — 


All depths, all deserts, and all shades : 


The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race, 


That ear hath heard our awful vow, 


Each in his last, low dwelling-place. 


That searching eye is on us now ! 


But one is absent — o'er his grave 


Let him whose heart is unprofaned, 


The palmy shades of Syria wave , 


WTiose hand no blameless blood hath stained — 


Far distant from his native Rhine, 


Let him, whose thoughts no record keep 


He died, unmourned, in Palestine ! 


Of crimes in silence buried deep, 


The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, 


Here, in the face of Heaven, accuse 


To perish by a brother's hand ! 


rhe guilty whom its wrath pursues ! " 


Peace to his soul ! though o'er his hed 




No dirge be poured, no tear be shed, 


'Twas hushed — that voice of thrilling 


Though all he loved his name forgot, 


sound ! 


They live who shall avenge him ye^ ! " 


And a dead silence reigned around. 




Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form 


" Accuser ! how to thee alone 


Towered like a phantom in the storm ! 


Became the fearful secret known ? " 


Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, 




With its dark folds his face to shroud, 


" There is an h-^ur when vain remorse 


Through pillared arches on he passed, 


First wakes in her eternal force ; 


With stately step, and paused at last, 


When pardon may not be retrieved, 


Where, on the altar's mouldering stone. 


When conscience will not be deceived. 


The fitful moonbeam brightly shone ; 


He that beheld the victim bleed. 


Then on the fearful stillness broke 


Beheld, and aided in the deed — 


Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke : — 


When earthly fears had lost their power 




Revealed the tale in such an hour. 


•♦Before that eye whose glance pervades 


Unfolding, with his latest breath. 


All depths, all deserts, and all shades ; 


AU that gave keener pangs to death." 


Heard by that ear awake on high 




E'en to thought's whispers ere they die — 


•' By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, 


With all a mortal's awe I stand. 


Who is forever, and hath been, 


Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. 


And by th' Atoner's cross adored. 


To heaven I lift that hand, and call 


And by th' avenger's holy sword, 


For judgment on the criminal ; 


By truth eternal and divine, 


The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues — 


Accuser ! wilt thou swear to thine ? " 


It cries for vengeance. I accuse ! " 


— "The cross upon my heart is pressed, 




I hold the dagger to my breast ; 


'■* Name thou the guilty ! say for whom 


If false the tale whose truth I swear. 


rhou claim'st th' inevitable doom ! " 


Be mine the murderer's doom to bear • * 



w4 tai.es and historic scenes. 


Then sternly rose the dread reply — 


Voices, that long from earth had £ed. 


•' His days are numbered — he must die ! 


And steps and echoes from the dead ; 


There is no shadow of the night 


And many a dream whose forms arise 


So deep as to conceal his flight ; 


Like a darker world's realities ! 


fiarth dcth not hold so lone a waste 


Call them not vain illusions — born 


But there his footsteps shall be traced ; 


But for the wise and brave to scorn ! 


Devotion hath no shrine so blest 


Heaven, that the penal doom defers, 


1 hat there in safety he may rest. 


Hath yet its thousand ministers. 


Where'er he treads, let Vengeance there 


To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown^ 


Around him spread her secret snare ! 


In shade, in silence, and alone. 


In the busy haunts of men, 


Concentrating in one brief hour 


In the still and shadowy glen, 


Ages of retribution's power ! 


When the social board is crowned, 


— K thou wouldst know the lot of thost-. 


When the wine cup sparkles round ; 


Whose souls are dark with guilty woes. 


When his couch of sleep is pressed. 


Ah ! seek them not where pleasure's thrc^g 


And a dream his spirit's guest ; 


Are listening to the voice of song ; 


When his bosom knows no fear, 


Seek them not where the banquet glows. 


Let the dagger still be near. 


And the red vineyard's nectar flows : 


Till, sudden as the lightning's dart. 


There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek. 


Silent and swift it reach his heart ! 


The eye of feverish joy may speak. 


One warning voice, one fearful word. 


And smiles, the ready mask of pride, 


Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, 


The canker worm within may hide. 


Then vainly may the guilty fly, 


Heed not those signs ! they but delude ; 


Unseen, unaided, — he must die ! 


Follow, and mark their solitude ! 


Let those he loves prepare his tomb, 




Let friendship lure him to his doom ! 


The song is hushed, the feast is done, 


Perish his deeds, his name, his race, 


And Lindheim's lord remains alone — 


Without a record or a trace ! 


Alone in silence and unrest. 


Away ! be watchful, swift, and free, 


With the dread secret of his breast ; 


To wreak th' invisible's decree. 


Alone with anguish and with fear, 


'Tis passed — th' avenger claims his prey : 


— There needs not an avenger here ! 


On to the chase of death — away! " 


Behold him ! — Why that sudden start ? 




Thou hear' St the beating of thy heart ! 


And all was still. The sweeping blast 


Thou hear'st the night wind's hollow sigh, 


Caught not a whisper as it passed ; 


Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry ! 


The shadowy forms were seen no more. 


No sound but these may near thee be ; 


The tombs deserted as before ; 


Sleep ! all things earthly sleep — but thee 


And the wide forest waved immense 




In dark and lone magnificence. 


No ! there are murmurs on the air. 


In Lindheim's towers the feast had closed ; 


And a voice is heard that cries — *-D& 


The song was hushed, the bard reposed ; 


spair ! " 


Sleep settled on the weary guest. 


And he who trembles fain would deem 


And the castle's lord retired to rest. 


'Twas the whisper of 'a waking dream. 


To rest ! The captive doomed to die 


Was it but this ? Again, 'tis there : 


May slumber, when his hour is nigh ; 


Again is heard — " Despair ! Despair 1 " . 


The seaman, when the billows foam. 


'Tis past — its tones have slowly died 


Rocked on the mast, may dream of home ; 


In echoes on the mountain side ; 


The warrior, on the battle's eve. 


Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. 


Ma^ win from care a short reprieve 


He knew their fearful meaning -well, 


But 9arth and heaven alike deny 


And shrinking from the midnight gloom. 


Their peace to guilt's o'erwearied eye ; 


As from the shadow of the tomb. 


And night, that brings to grief a calm, 


Yet shuddering, turned in pale dismay, 


To toil a pause, to pain a balm, 


When broke the dawn's flrst kindling ray, 


{lath spells terriflc in her course. 


And sought, amidst the forest wild, 


Hrcad sounds and shadows, for remorse — 


Some shade where sunbeam never smiled 



A T^T.F. OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 2b\ 


Yes ! hide thee, guilt ! The laughing mom 


When joy's full cup is mantling high, 


Wakes in a heaven of splendor born ! 


When flattery's blandishments are nigh ; 


The storms that shook the mountain crest 


Judge her not then ! within her breast 


Have sought their view^less world of rest. 


Are energies unseen, that rest ! 


High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, 


They wait their call — and grief alone 


Soars the young eagle in the blaze, 


;May make the soul's deep secrets known. 


Exulting, as he wings his way, 


Yes ! let her smile 'midst pleasure's train. 


r : rersl in thd fount of day ; 


Leading the reckless and the vain ! 


A.nd brigLtl}- past his banks of vine, 


Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, 


In glory, flows the monarch Rhine ; 


Besprinkled with the martyr's blood ; 


And joyous peals the vintage song 


Her voice the patriot's heart hath steeled, 


His wild luxuriant shores along, 


Her spirit glowed on battle field ; 


As peasant bands, from rock and deU, 


Her courage freed from dungeon's gloom 


Their strains of choral transport swell ; 


The captive brooding o'er his doom ; 


And cliffs of bold fantastic forms. 


Her faith the fallen monarch saved. 


Aspiring to the realm of storms. 


Her love the tyrant's fury braved ; 


And woods around, and waves below. 


No scene of danger or despair. 


Catch the rad Orient's deepening glow. 


But she hath won her triumph there ' 


That lends each tower, and convent spire, 




A tinge of its ethereal fire. 


Away ! nor cloud the festal morn 




With thoughts of boding sadness bom -' 


Swell high the song of festal hours ! 


Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, 


Deck ye the shrine with living flowers ! 


Fair daughter of a noble line ! 


Let music o'er the waters breathe ! 


Young Ella ! from thy tower, whoso height 


Let beauty twine the bridal wreath ! 


Hath caught the flush of Eastern light. 


While sh ., whose blue eye laughs in light, 


Watching, while soft the morning air 


Whose cheek with love's own hue is bright. 


Parts on thy brow the sunny hair. 


The fair-haired maid of Lindheim's hall. 


Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide 


Wakes to her nuptial festival. 


Bears thy loved warrior to his bride — 


0, who hath seen, in dreams that soar 


Him, whose high deeds romantic praise 


To worlds the soul would fain explore, 


Hath hallowed with a thousand lays. 


When, for her own blest country pining. 




Its beauty o'er her thought is shining. 


He came — that youthful chief — he cam» 


Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye 


That favored lord of love and fame f 


Was all one beam of ecstasy ! 


His step was hurried — as if one 


Whose glorious brow no traces wore 


Who seeks a voice within to shun ; 


Of guilt, or sorrow known before ! 


His cheek was varying, and expressed 


Whose smile, undimmed by aught of earth. 


The conflict of a troubled breast , 


A sunbeam of immortal birth. 


His eye was pnxious — doubt, and dread. 


Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying. 


And a stern grief, might there be read : 


Where love and joy are both undying ! 


Yet all that marked his altered mien 


E'en thus — a vision of delight. 


Seemed struggling to be still unseen. 


A beam to gladden mortal sight. 


— With shrinking heart, with namelew 


A flower whose head no storm had bowed. 


fear. 


Whose leaves ne'er drooped beneath a cloud, — 


Young EUa met the brow austere, 


Thus, by the world unstained, untried, 


And the wild look, which seemed to fly 


Seemed that beloved and lovely bride ; 


The timid welcome of her eye. 


A being all too soft and fair 


Was that a lover's gaze, which chilled 


One breath of earthly woe to bear ! 


The soul, its awful sadness thrilled ? 


Yet lives there many a lofty mind. 


A lover's brow, so darkly fraught 


In light and fragile form enshrined ; 


With all the heaviest gloom of thougJit i 


And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye 


She trembled — ne'er to grief inured. 


Hide strength to siiffer and to die ! 


By its dread lessons ne'er matured. 


Judge not of woman's heart in hours 


Unused to meet a glance of less 


Hia* s';rew her path with summer flowers, 


Than all a parent's tendernesa. 



i56 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


Shuddering she felt, through every sense, 


Eve gathers round him — on his bro^ 


rhe deathlike faintness of suspense. 


Already rests the wintry snow ; 




His form is bent, his features wear 


High o'er the windings of the flood, 


The deepening lines of age and care ; 


On Lindhcim's terraced rocks they stood. 


His faded eye hath lost its fire ; 


Whence the free sight afar might stray 


Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire ? 


O'er that imperial river's way, 


Yet tell me all — thy woes impart, 


Which, rushing from its Alpine scarce, 


My Ukic ! to a faithful heart. 


Mvikes one long triumph of its course, 


Which sooner far — 0, doubt not this — 


Roiling in tranquil grandeur by, 


Would share thy pangs, than others' bliss ! ' 


'Midst Nature's noblest pageantry. 




But they, o'er that majestic scene. 


<♦ Ella, what wouldst thou ? — 'tis a tale 


With clouded brow and anxious mien, 


Will make that cheek as marble pale ! i 


In silence gazed ! - for Ella's heart 


Yet what avails it to conceal 


Feared its own trrrors to impart ; 


All thou too soon must know and feel ? 


And he, who vainly strove to hide 


It must, it must be told — prepare, 


His pangs, with all a warrior's pride, 


And nerve that gentle heart to bear. 


Seemed gathering courage to unfold 


But I — 0, was it then for me 


'^ome fearful tale, that must be told. 


The herald of thy woes to be ? i 




Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy, 


At length his mien, his voice, obtained 


And wake thee first from dreams of joy ? 


A cahn, that seemed by conflicts gained, 


Forgive ! — I would not ruder tone 


As thus he spoke — " Yes ! gaze a while 


Should make the fearful tidings knoA\Ti, 


On the bright scenes that round thee smile ; 


I would not that unpitying eyes 


For, if thy love be firm and true, 


Should coldly watch thine agonies ! 


Soon must thou bid their charms adieu ! 


Better 'twere mine — that task severe. 


A fate hangs o'er us, whose decree 


To cloud thy breast Avith grief and fear. 


Must bear me far from them or thee ; 


* 


Our path is one of snares and fear ; 


*• Hast thou not heard, in legends old, 


I lose thee, if I linger here . 


WUd tales that turn the lifeblood cold, 


Droop not, beloved ! thy home shall rise 


Of those who meet in cave or glen. 


As fair, beneath far- distant skies ; 


Far from the busy walks of men ; 


As fondly tenderness and truth 


Those who mysterious vigils keep. 


Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. 


When earth is wrapped in shades and sleep. 


But speak ! and, when yon hallowed shrine 


To judge of crimes, like Him on high, 


Hath heard the vows which make thee mine. 


In stillness and in secrecy ? 


Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more 


Th' unknown avengers, whose decree 


To tread thine own loved mountain shore, 


'Tis fruitless to resist or flee ? 


But share and soothe, repining not, 


Whose name hath cast a spell of power 


The bitterness of exile's lot ? " 


O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tower? ^ | 




Thy sire — Ella ! hope is fled ! 


" Ulric ! thou know'st how dearly loved 


Thiiik of him, mourn him, as the dead ! | 


The scenes where first my childhood roved ; 


Their sentence, theirs, hath sealed his doora 1 


The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme 


And thou mayst weep as o'er his tomb ! | 


Above our own majestic stream, 


Yes, weep ! — relieve thy heart oppressed, i 


The halls where first my heart beat high 


Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast ! 


To tlie proud songs of chivalry. 


Thy cheek is cold — thy tearless eye 


AH, all are dear — yet these are ties 


Seems fixed in frozen vacancy. 


Aff'ection well may sacrifice ; 


0, gaze not thus ! — thy silence break : 


Loved though they be, where'er thou »-% 


Speak ! if 'tis but in anguish, speak ! " 


There is the country of my heart ! 




V^et is there one, who, rtft of me. 


She spoke at length, in accents low, 


Were lonely as a blasted tree ; 


Of wild and half- indignant woe : 


One, who still hoped my hand should close 


— "He doomed to perish ! he decreed 


His eyes, in Nature's last repose ; 


By their avenging arm to bleed ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



211 



He, the renowned in holy fight, 

The Paynim's scourge, the Christian's might ! 

Uhric ! what mcan'st thou ? — not a thought 

Of that high mind with guilt is fraught ! 

Say, for which glorious trophy won, 

Which deed of martial prowess done, 

Which battle field, in days gone by, 

Jained by his valor, must hf; die ? 

Away ! 'tis not his lofty name 

Their sentence hath consigned to shame — 

'Tis not his life they seek. Recall 

Thy words, oi say he shall not fall ! " 

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief 
Gave pleading softness to her grief: 
" And wilt thou not, by all the ties 
Of our affianced love," she cries, 
" By all my soul hath fixed on thee, 
Of cherished hope for years to be. 
Wilt thou not aid him ? wilt not thou 
Shield his gray head from danger now ? 
Vnd didst thou notj in childhood's morn, 
That saw our young aff'ection born, 
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, 
Sharing his parent smile with me ? 
Kind, gentle Ulric ! best beloved ! 
Now be thy faith in danger proved ! 
Though snares and terrors round him w^ait, 
Thou wilt not leave him to his fate ! 
Turn not away in cold disdain ! 
— Shall thine own Ella plead in vain ? 
How art thou changed ! and must I bear 
That frown, that stern, averted air ? 
What mean they ? " 

•* Maiden, need st thou ask ? 
These features wear no specious mask. 
Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye 
With characters of mystery ? 
This — this is anguish ! Can it be ? 
And plead'st thou for thy sire to met 
Know, though thy prayers a death pang give, 
He must not meet my sight — and live ! 
Well mayst thou shudder ! Of the band 
Who watch in secret o'er the land, 
Whose thousand swords 'tis vain to shun, 
Th' unknown, th' unslumbering — I am one ! 
My arm defend him ! What were then 
Each vow that binds the souls of men, 
Sworn on the cross, and deeply sealed 
By rites that may not be revealed ? 
— A breeze's breath, an echo's tone, 
A passing sound, forgot when gone ! 
Nay, shrink not from me — I would fly, 
That he by other hands may die ! 
33 



What ! think'st thou I would live to trace 
Abhorrence in that angel face ? 
Beside thee should the lover stand, 
The father's lifeblood on his brand ? 
No ! I have bade my home adieu. 
For other scenes mine eyes must view. 
liQ^k on me, love ! Now all is known, 
O EUa ! must I fly alone ? " 

Lut she wcs changed. Scarce heaved hei 
breath 
She stooci like one prepared for death, 
And -.9ept no more ; then, casting down 
From her fair l/rows the nuptial crown. 
As joy's last vision from her heart, 
Cried, with sad firmness, '' We must part ! 
'Tis past ! These bridal flowers, eo frail 
They may not brook one stormy gale. 
Survive — too dear as '^till thou art — 
Each hope they imaged ; we must part ! 
One struggle yet — and all is o'er •. 
We love — and may we meet no more ! . 
O, little know'st thou of the power 
Aflection h nds in danger's hour. 
To deem that fate should thus divide 
My footsteps from a father's side ! 
Speed thou to other shores — I go 
To share his wanderings and his woe. 
Where'er his path of thorns may lead, 
Whate'er his doom, by Heaven decreed, 
If there be guardian powers above 
To nerve the heart of filial love, 
If courage may be won by prayer, 
Or strength by duty — I can bear ! 
Farewell ! — though in that sound be j e«rs 
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, 
Though the soul vibrate to its knell 
Of joys departed — yet farewell ! " 

Was this the maid who seemed, erewhilej 
Born but to meet life's vernal smile ^ 
A being, almost on the wing. 
As an embodied breeze of spring ? 
A child of beauty and of bliss, 
Sent from some pui'er sphere to this — 
Not, in her exile, to sustain 
The trial of one earthly pain ; 
But, as a sunbeam, on to move, 
Wakening all hearts to joy and love ? 
That airy form, with footsteps free, 
And radiant glance — could this be she ? 
From her fair cheek the rose was gone. 
Her eye's blue sparkle thence had flown j 
Of all its vivid glow bereft. 
Each playful charm her lip had left. 



t5h TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


But what were these ? on that young face, 


E'en I unshrinking see them near, 


Far nobler beauty filled their place ! 


And what hast thou to do with fear? 


Twas ivot the pride that scorns to bend, 


But when have warriors calmly borne 


Though all the bolts of heaven descend ; 


The cold and bitter smile of scorn ? 


Vot the fierce grandeur of despair. 


'Tis not for thee ! thy soul hath force 


Vhjd half exults its fate to dare ; 


To cope with all things — but remorse ; 


Nor that wild energy which leads 


And this my brightest thought shall be. 


Th' enthusiast to fanatic deeds : 


Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. 


Her mien, bi sorrow unsubdued, 


Go ! break thou not one solemn vow ; 


Was fixed ir silent fortitude ; 


Closed be the fearful conflict now ; 


Not h: its haughty strength elate. 


Go ! but forget not how my heart 


But calmly, mournfully sedate. 


Still at thy name will proudly start, 


'Twas strange, yet lovely to behold 


When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell. 


That spirit in so fair a mould. 


Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well ! " 


As if a rose tree's tender form, 


— And thus they parted. Why recall 


Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. 


The scene of anguish known tc all ? 




The burst of tears, the blush of pride, 


One look she cast, where firmness strove 


That fain those fruitless tears would hide ; 


With the deep pangs of parting love ; 


The lingering look, the last embrace, 


One tear a moment in her eye 


0, what avails it to retrace ? 


Dimmed the pure light of constancy ; 


They parted — in that bitter word 


And pressing, as to still her heart, 


A thousand tones of grief are heard, 


She turned in silence to depart. 


Whose deeply-seated echoes rest 


But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought, 


In the fair cells of every breast. 


Then started from his trance of thought : 


Who hath not known, who shall not knoWt 




That keen yet most familiar woe ? 


" Stay thee ! 0, stay ! — It must not be — 


Where'er affection's home is found, 


All, all were well resigned for thee ! 


It meets her on the holy ground ; 


Stay ! till my soul each vow disown. 


The cloud of every summer hour, 


But those which make me thine alone ! 


The canker worm of every flower. 


If there be guilt — there is no shrine 


Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, 


More holy than that heart of thine : 


That mortal agony of love ? 


There be my crime absolved — I take 




The cup of shame for thy dear sake. 


The autumn moon slept bright and still 


Of shame I — no ! to virtue true, 


On fading wood and purple hill ; 


Where thou art, there is glory too ! 


The vintager had hushed his lay. 


Go now ! and to thy sire impart, 


The fisher shunned the blaze of day, 


He hath a shield in Ulric's heart, 


And silence, o'er each green recess. 


And thou a home ! Remain, or flee. 


Brooded in misty sultriness. 


In life, in death — I follow thee ! " 


But soon a low and measured sound 




Broke on the deep repose around ; 


" There shall not rest one cloud of shame. 


From Lindheim's tower a glancing oar 


Ulric ! on thy lofty name ; 


Bade the stream ripple to the shore. 


There shall not one accusing word 


Sweet was that sound of waves which parted 


Against thy spotless faith be heard ! 


The fond, the true, the noble-hearted ; 


Thy path is whfere the brave rush on, 


And smoothly seemed the bark to glide, 


Thy course must be where palms are won : 


And brightly flowed the reckless tide, 


Where banners wave, and falchions glare. 


Though, mingling with its current, fell 


Son of the mighty ! be thou there ! 


The last warm tears of love's farewell. 


Think on the glorious names that shine 




Along thy sire's majestic line ; 


PART II. 


0, last of that illustrious race ! 


Sweet is the gloom of forest shades. 


Thou wert not born to meet disgrace ! 


Their pillared walks and dim arcades, 


Well, well I know each grief, each pain, 


With all the thousand flowers that blow, 


Thy spirit noblv could susta'.u • 


A waste of loveliness, below. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



2ei» 



To him whose soul the woiid would fly, 

For nature's lonely majesty : 

To bard, when rapt in mighty themes, 

To lover, lost in fairy dreams. 

To hermit, whose prophetic thought 

By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, 

And, in the visions of his rest, 

Held bright communion with the blest : 

'Tis sweet, but solemn ! There alike 

Silence and sound with awe can strike. 

The deep ^olian murmur made 

By sighing breeze and rustling shade, 

And caveined fountain gushing nigh, 

And wild bee's plaintive lullaby : 

Or the dead stillness of the bowers, 

When dark the summer tempest lowers ; 

When silent nature seems to wait 

The gathering thunder's voice of fate ; 

When the aspen scarcely waves in air, 

And the clouds collect for the lightning's glare - 

Each, each alike is awful there, 

And thrills the soul with feelings high, 

As some majestic harmony. 

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced 
Each green retreat in breathless haste — 
Young Ella — lingered not to hear 
The woodnotes, lost on mourner's ear. 
The shivering leaf, the breeze's play, 
The fountain's gush, the wild bird's lay — 
These charm not now ; her sire she sought. 
With trembling frame, with anxious thought^ 
And, starting if a forest deer 
But moved the rustling branches near. 
First felt that innocence may fear. 

She reached p, lone and shadowy dell. 
Where the free nunbeam never fell ; 
Twas twilight there at summer noon. 
Deep nij^ht be'^eath the harvest moon, 
And scarce rai<Tht one bright star be seen 
Grleaming the tangled boughs between ; 
For many a giant rock around 
Dark in terrific grande ir frowned. 
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high 
Shut out eac h glimpse of the bless6d sky. 
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave. 
Ne'er to heaven's beam one sparkle gave. 
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew, 
Caught not from day one glowing hue. 

'Twas said, some fearful deed untold 
Had stained that scene in days of old ; 
Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown 
A. shade yat deeper than its own ; 



And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom, 
Perchance above some victim's tomb, 
O'ergrown with ivy and with moss. 
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, 
Which, haply, silent record bore 
Of guilt and penitence of yore. 

Who by that holy sign was kneeling, 
With brow unuttcred pangs revealing, 
Hands clasped convulsively in prayer, 
And lifted eyes and streaming hair, 
And cheek, all pale as marble mould. 
Seen by the moonbeam's radiance cold ? 
Was it some image of despair 
Still fixed that stamp of woe to bear ? 
— O, ne'er could Art her forms have wrought 
To speak such agonies of thought ! 
Those deathlike features gave to view 
A mortal's pangs too deep and true ! 
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, 
As Ella's hurried step drew nigh ; 
He turned, with aspect darkly wild. 
Trembling he stood — before his child ! 
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, 
And to her father's bosom clung. 

"Away! what seek'st thou here?" m 
cried ; * 
** Art thou not now thine Ulric's bride ? 
Hence, leave me — leave me to await, 
In solitude, the storm of Fate ; 
Thou know'st not what my doom may be, 
Ere evening comes in peace to thte." 

** My father ! shall the joyous throng 
Swell high for me the bridal song ? 
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread. 
The festal garland bind my head. 
And thou in grief, in peril, roam. 
And make the wilderness thy home ? 
No ! I am here with thee to share 
All suff'ering mortal strength may bear ; 
And, O, whate'er thy foes decree. 
In life, in death, in chains, or free — 
Well, well I feel, in thee secure ; 
Thy heart and hand alike are pure ! " 

Then was there meaning in his look, 
Which deep that trusting spirit shook ; 
So wildly did each glance express 
The strife of shame and bitterness, — 
As thus he spoke : " Fond dreams, O, hence 
Is this the mien of Innocence ? 
This furrowed brow, this restless eye — 
Head thou this fearful tale, and fly ! 



360 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Is it enough r or must I seek 

For tcords, the tale of guilt to speak ? 

Then be it so — I will not doom 

Tliy youth to -wither in its bloom ; 

I v.-^^ not see thy tender frame 

Bowed to the earth with fear and shame. 

No ! though I teach thee to abhor 

The sire so fondly loA'ed before; 

Though the dread effort rend my breast, 

Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest ! 

O, bitter penance ! thou wilt turn 

Away in horror and in scorn ; 

Thy looks, that still through all the past 

Affection's gentlest beams have cast, 

As lightning on my heart wall fall. 

And I must mark and bear it all ! 

Yet though of life's best ties bereaved. 

Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived ! 

" 1 linger — let me speed the tale 
Ere voice, and thought, and memory faL. 
Wliy should I falter thus to tell 
What Heaven so long hath known too well ? 
Yes ! though from mortal sight concealed, 
There hath a brother's blood appealed ! 
He died — 'twas not where banners wave, 
And war steeds trample on the brave ; 
He died — it was in Holy Land — 
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand ; 
He sleeps not with his sires at rest. 
With trophied shield and knightly crest ; 
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, 

— But I can tell thee Avhere he lies ! 
It was a wild and savage spot, 

But once beheld — and ne'er forgot! 
I see it now — that haunted scene 
My spirit's dwelling still hath been ; 
And he is there — I see him laid 
Beneath that palm tree's lonely shade. 
The fountain wave that sparkles nigh 
Bears witness with its crimson dye ! 
I see th' accusing glance he raised, 
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed ; 

— Ne'er will that parting look forgive ! 
I stiU behold it — and I live ! 

I live ! from hope, from mercy driven, 
A mark for all the shafts of heaven ! 

•• Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won 
My birthright ; and my child, my son. 
Heir to high name, high fortune born, 
Was doomed to penury and scorn, 
A.n alien 'midst his father's halls, 
Vn exile f •■om his native walls. 



Could I bear this ? The rankling thought. 
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; 
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile. 
Lurked in my infant's rosj' smile. 
And when his accents lisped my name, 
They woke my inmost heart to tlame ! 
I struggled — are there evil powers 
That claim their own ascendant hours ? 

— O, what should thine unspotted soul 
Or know or fear of their control ? 
Why on the fearful conflict dwell ? 
Vainly I struggled, and I fell — 

Cast down from every hope of bliss — 
Too well thou know'st to what abyss ! 

" 'Twas done ! — that moment hurried by 
To darken all eternity. 
Years rolled away, long evil years, 
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears ; 
Nor aught but vain remorse I gained 
By the deep guilt my soul which stained. 
For, long a captive in the lands 
Where Arabs tread their burning sands, 
The haunted midnight of the mind 
Was round me while in chains I pined. 
By all forgotten, save by one 
Dread presence — which I could not shun. 

— How oft, when o'er the silent waste 
Nor path nor landmark might be traced, 
When slumbering by the watchfire's ray. 
The Wanderers of the Desert lay, 

And stars, as o'er an ocean shone, 

Vigil I kept — but not alone ! 

That form, that image from the dead. 

Still walked the wild with soundless tread . 

I've seen it in the fiery blast, 

I've seen it where the sand storms passed ; 

Beside the Desert's fount it stood, 

Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; 

And e'en when viewless, by the fear 

Curdling my veins, I knew 'twas near ! 

— Was near ! — I feel th' unearthly thriU 5 
Its power is on ray spirit still ! 

A mystic influence, undefined, 
The spell, the shadow of my mind ! 

" Wilt thou yet linger ? Time speeds on , 
One last farewell, and then begone ! 
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow. 
And let mc read thine aspect 7iow.' 
No ! stay thee yet, and learn the meed 
Heaven's justice to my crime decreed. 
Slow came the day that broke my chain. 
But I at length was free again ; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



26 



A.nd freedom brings a burst of joy 
E'en guilt itself can scarce destroy. 
I thought upon my own fair towers, 
My native Rhine's gay vineyard bowers, 
And in a father's visions, pressed 
Thee and thy brother to my breast. 
— 'Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet 
Recall the moment when we met ? 
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, 
Thy arms around me fondly clung ; 
Scarce aught than infant seraph less 
Seemed thy pure childhood's loveliness. 
But he was gone — that son for whom 
I rushed on guilt's eternal doom ; 
He for whose sake alone were given 
My peace on earth, my hope in heaven — 
He met me not. A ruthless band, 
Whose name with terror filled the land. 
Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild. 
Had reft the father of his child. 
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed 
Full on that cherished scion burst. 
Unknown his fate. — No parent nigh, 
My boy ! my first born ! didst thou die ? 
Or did they spare thee for a life 
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife ? 
Liv'st thou, unfriended, unallied, 
A wanderer lost, without a guide ? 
O, to thy fate's mysterious gloom 
Blest were the darkness of the tomb ! 

•* Ella ! 'tis done — my guilty heart 
Before thee all unveiled — depart ! 
Few pangs 'twill cost thee now to fly 
From one so stained, so lost as I ; 
Yet peace to thine untainted breast, 
E'en though it hate me ! — be thou blest I 
Farewell ! ihoxi shalt not linger here — 
E'en now th' avenger may be near : 
Where'er I turn, the foe, the snare. 
The dagger, may be ambushed there ; 
\ »ne hour — and haply all is o'er, 
And we must meet on earth no more. 
No, nor beyond ! — to those pure skies 
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise ; 
Heaven's will forever parts our lot. 
Yet, O, my child ! abhor me not ! 
Speak once ! to soothe this broken heart, 
Speak to me once ! and then depart ! " 

But stOI — as if each pulse were dead, 
Mute — as the power of speech were fled, 
Pale — as if Ufeblood ceased to warm 
The. marble beauty of her form ; 



On the dark rock she leaned licr head, 

That seemed as there 'twere riveted. 

And dropped the hands till then which pressed 

Her burning brow or throbbing breast. 

There beamed no teardrop in her eye. 

And from her lip there breathed no sigh, 

And on her brow no trace there dwett 

That told she suffered or she felt. 

All that once glowed, or smiled, or beamed. 

Now fixed, and quenched, and frozen seemed 

And long her sire, in wild dismay, 

Deemed her pure spirit passed away. 

But life returned. O'er that eold frame 
One deep convulsive shudder came ; 
And a faint light her eye relumed. 
And sad resolve her mien assumed. 
But there was horror in the ga'^e. 
Which yet to his she dared not raise ; 
And her sad accents, wild and low. 
As rising from a depth of woe. 
At first with hurried trembhng broke. 
But gathered firmness as she spoke. 
— "I leave thee not — whate'er betide. 
My footsteps shall not quit thy side ; 
Pangs keen as death my soul may thrill 
But yet thou art my father still ! 
And, O, if stained by guilty deed, 
For some kind spirit, tenfold need. 
To speak of Heaven's absolving love, 
And waft desponding thought above. 
Is there not power in mercy's wave 
The bFood stain from thy soul to lave ? 
Is there not balm to heal despair, 
In tears, in penitence, in prayer ? 
My father ! kneel at His pure shrine 
Who died to expiate guilt like thine, 
Weep — and my tears with thine shall blend 
Pray — while my prayers with thine ascend 
And, as our mingling sorrows rise. 
Heaven will relent, though earth despise ! " 

** My child, my child ! these bursting tears 
The first mine eyes have shed for years, 
Though deepest conflicts they express, 
Y'et flow not all in bitterness ! 
O, thou hast bid a withered heart 
From desolation's slumber start i 
Thy voice of pity and of love 
Seems o'er its icy depths to move 
E'en as a breeze of health, which brings 
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. 
And there is mercy yet ! I feel 
Its influence o'er my spirit steel , 



2U2 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


How welcome were each pang below, 


By torrent wave and mountain brow, 


If guilt might be atoned by woe ! 


Is wandering as an outcast now. 


Think'st thou I yet may be forgiven ? 


To share with Lindheim's fallen chief 


Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven ? 


Ilis shame, his terror, and his grief. 


0, if it yet a\ ail to plead, 




[f judgment be not yet decreed, 


Hast thou not marked the ruin.'s flower, 


Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, 


That blooms in solitary grace. 


Till pardon shall be sealed on high ! 


And, faithful to its mouldering tower, 


Yet, yet I shrink ! — Will Mercy shed 


Waves in the banner's place ? 


Her dews upon this fallen head ? 


From those gray haunts renown hath pass'sli 


— Kneel, Ella, kneel ! till full and free 


Time wins his heritage at last ; 


Descend forgiveness, won by thee ! " 


The day of glory hath gone by. 




With all its pomp and minstrelsy : 


Thej knelt — before the Cross, that sign 


Yet stiQ the flower of golden hues 


Of love eternal and divine ; 


There loves its fragrance to diffuse, 


That symbol, which so long hath stood 


To fallen and forsaken things 


A rock of strength on time's dark flood. 


With constancy unaltered clings. 


Clasped by despairing hands, and laved 


And, smiling o'er the wreck of state, 


By the warm tears of nations saved. 


With beauty clothes the desolate. 


In one deep prayer their spirits blent. 


— E'en such was she, the fair-haired maia 


The guilty and tho innocent ; 


In all her light of youth arrayed, 


Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, 


Forsaking every joy b'elow 


Age, soiled mth every stain of earth. 


To soothe a guilty parent's woe, 


Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, 


And clinging thus, in beauty's prime, 


One sacrifice of agony. 


To the dark ruin made by crime. 


— 0, blest, though bitter be their source — 


0, ne'er did Heaven's propitious eyes 


Though dark the fountain of remorse, 


Smile on a purer sacrifice ; 


Blessed are the tears which pour from 


Ne'er did young love, at duty's shrine. 


thence. 


More nobly brighter hopes resign ! 


Th' atoning stream of penitence ! 


O'er her own pangs she brooded not, 


And let not pity check the tide 


Nor sank beneath her bitter lot ; 


By which the heart is purified ; 


No ! that pure spirit's lofty worth 


liCt not vain comfort turn its course. 


Still rose more buoyantly from earth, 


Or timid love repress its force ! 


And drew from an eternal source 


Go ! bind the flood, whose waves expand. 


Its gentle, yet triumphant force ; 


To bear luxuriance o'er the land ; 


Housed by affliction's chastening might 


Forbid the life-restoring rains 


To energies more calmly bright. 


To fall on Afric's burning plains , 


Like the wild harp of airy sigh. 


Close up the fount that gushed to cheer 


Woke by the storm to harmony ! 


The pilgrim o'er the waste who trod ; 


He that in mountain holds hath sought 


But check thou not one holy tear 


A refuge for unconquered thought, 


Which Penitence devotes to God ! 


A chartered home, where Freedom's child 




Might rear her altars in the wild, 


Through scenes so lone the vdld deer ne'er 


And fix her quenchless torch on high. 


Vas roused by huntsman's bugle there — 


A beacon for Eternity ; 


do rude that scarce might human eye 


Or they, whose martyr spirits wage 


Sustain their dread sublimity — 


Proud war with Persecution's rage, 


So awful that the timid swain. 


And to the deserts bear the faith 


Nurtured amiilst their dark domain. 


That bids them smile on chains and death 


Had peopled with unearthly forms 


Well may they draw, from aU around. 


Their mists, their forests, and their storms — 


Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, 


She, whose blue eye of laughing light 


From the deep power of earth and sky. 


Once made each festal scene more bright ; 


Wild nature's might of majesty. 


Whose voico in song of joy was sweetest. 


Strong energies, immortal fires, 


'^Vliose step I dance of mirth was fleetest, 


High hopes, magnificent desires I 



A TALE OF THE 


SECRET TRIBUNAL. 26; 


Haste ! lor the spirit, almost flown, 


No more on earth beholding aught 


[s lingeriiag for thy words alone." 


Save one dread vision, stamped jn thought. 


! 


But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid 


Then first a shade, resembling fear, 


His deeper woe had scarce surveyed. 


Passed o'er th' Avenger's mien austere ; 


Till his wild voice revealed a tale 


A nan.eless awe his features crossed, 


Which seemed to bid the heavens turn pale ! 


Soon in their haughty coldness lost. 


He called her, •« Sister ! " and the word 




In anguish breathed, in terror heard. 


* What vvouldst thou r Ask the rock and wild, 


Revealed enough : all else were weak — 


ind bid them tell thee of their child ! 


That sound a thousand pangs could sneak 


Ask the rude winds, and angry skies. 


He knelt beside that breathless clay. 


Who?e tempests were his lullabies ! 


Which, fixed in utter stillness, lay — 


His chambers were the cave and wood. 


Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, 


Elis fosterers men of wrath and blood ; 


Each line of that unconscious face ; 


Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, 


Knelt, till his eye could bear no more 


By wrongs to desperation driven ! 


Those marble features to explore ; 


Who, in their pupil, now could trace 


Then, starting, turning, as to shun 


The features of a nobler race ? 


The image thus by Memory won, 


Yet such was mine ! — if one who cast 


A wild farewell to her he bade. 


A look of anguish o'er the past. 


Who by the dead in silence prayed . 


Bore faithful record on the day 


And, frenzied by his bitter doom. 


When penitent in death he lay. 


Fled thence — to find all earth a tomb 


But still deep shades my prospects veil ; 




He died — and told but half the tale. 


Days passed away — and Rhine's fair shora 


With him it sleeps — I only know 


In the light of summer smiled once more ; 


Enough for stern and silent woe. 


The vines were purpling on the hill. 


For vain ambition's deep regret, 


And the cornfields waved in the sunshine stilL 


For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, 


There came a bark up the noble stream. 


For dreams of pride, that vainly tell 


With pennons that shed a golden gleam. 


How high a lot had suited well 


With the flash of arms, and the v^ice of song 


The heir of some illustrious line. 


Gliding triumphantly along ; 


Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine ! " 


For warrior forms were ghttering there. 




Whose plumes waved light in the whisperini 


Then swift through Albert's bosom passed 


air; 


One pang, the keenest and the last. 


And as the tones of oar and wave 


Ere with his spirit fled the fears. 


Their measured cadence mingling gave, 


The sorrows, and the pangs of years ; 


'Twas thus th' exulting chorus rose, 


And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, 


While many an echo swelled the close : — 


FalteriYig he murmured, " Heaven is just ! 




For thee that deed of guilt was done, 


•» From the fields where dead and dying 


By thee avenged, my son ! my son ! " 


On their battle bier are lying, 


— The day was closed — the moonbeam shed 


Where the blood unstanched is gushing, 


Light on the living and the dead. 


Where the steed unchecked is rushing, 


And as through rolling clouds it broke. 


Trampling o'er the noble-hearted, 


Young EUa from her trance awoke — 


Ere the spirit yet be parted , 


Awoke to bear, to feel, to know 


Where each breath of heaven is swaying 


E'en more than all an orphan's woe. 


Knightly plumes and banners placing, 


0, ne'er did moonbeam's light serene 


And the clarion's music swelling 


With beauty clothe a sadder scene ! 


Calls the vulture from his dwelling ; 


There, cold in death, the father slept — 


He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, 


There, pale in woe, the daughter wept ! 


The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine i 


Yes ! she might weep — but one stood nigh. 


To his own fair woods, enclosing 


With horror in his tearless eye, 


Vales in sunny peace reposing. 


That '^ve which ne'er again shall close 


Where his native stream is laving 


n the deep quiet of repose ; 
34 


Banks, with golden harvests waving. 



.o« TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES- 


Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, 


And know, to calm thy suffering heart, 


But calm and cold severity, 


My spirit is resigned to part, 


A spiri'- haughtily austere, 


Trusting in Him who reads and knows 


Stranger to pity as to fear. 


This guilty breast, with all its woes. 


It' seemed as pride had thrown a veil 


Rise ! I would bless thee once again, 


O'er that dark brow and visage pale, 


Be still, be firm — for all is vain ! " 


Leaving the searcher nought to guess, 




All was so nx ed and passionless. 


And she was still. She hea d him not — 




Her prayers were hushed, her pangs foig.)t } 


He spoke — and they who heard the tone 


All thought, all memory passed away. 


Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. 


Silent and motionless she lay. 


*< I've sought thee far in forest bowers, 


In a brief death, a blest suspense 


I'vs sought thee long in peopled towers. 


Ahke of agony and sense. 


I've borne th' dagger of th' Unknown 


She saw not when the dagger gleamed 


Through scenes explored by me alone ; 


In the last red light from the west tb»' 


My search is closed — nor toils nor fears 


streamed ; 


Repel the servant of the Seers ; 


She marked not when the lifeblood's flo» 


We meet — 'tis vain to strive or fly : 


Came rushing to the mortal blow ; 


Albert of Lindheim, thou must die ! " 


While, unresisting, sank her siro, 




Yet gathered firmness to expire, 


Then with clasped hands the fair-haired 


Mingling a warrior's courage high 


maid 


With a penitent's humility. 


'Sank at his feet, and wildly prayed : — 


And o'er him there th' Avenger stood, 


" Stay, stay thee ! sheathe that lifted steel ! 


And watched the victim's ebbing blood, 


0, thou art human, and canst feel ! 


Still calm, as if his faithful hand 


Hear me ! if e'er 'twas thine to prove 


Had but obeyed some just command. 


The blessing of a parent's love ; 


Some power whose stern, yet righteous wUl 


By thine own father's hoary hair. 


He deemed it virtue to fulfil. 


By her who gave thee being, spare ! 


And triumphed, when the palm was won, 


Did they not, o'er thy infant years. 


For duty's task austerely done. 


Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears ! 




Young warrior ! thou wilt heed my prayers. 


But a feeling dread and undefined 


As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs ! " 


A mystic presage of the mind. 




With strange and sudden impulse ran 


But cold th' Avenger's look remained, 


Chill through the heart of the dying man ; 


His brow its rigid calm maintained : 


And his thoughts found voice, and his bosoB 


" Maiden ! 'tis vain — my bosom ne'er 


breath. 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


And it seemed as fear suspended death. 


The nurture of my infant years 


And nature from her terrors drew 


Froze in my soul the source of tears ; 


Fresh energy and vigor new. 


'Tis not for me to pause or melt. 




Or feel as happier hearts have felt. 


«' Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne'e^ 


Away ! the hour of fate goes by : 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


Thy prayers are fruitless — he must die ! " 


Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood's years, 




Froze in thy soul the source of tears : 


" Rise, Ella ! rise ! " with steadfast brow 


The time will come, when thou, with me, 


The father spoke — unshrinking now. 


The judgment throne of G:)d wilt see — 


As if from Heaven a martyr's strength 


0, by thy hopes of mer y then. 


Had settled on his soul at length : 


By His blest love who died for men. 


•' Kneel thou no more, my noble chUd, 


By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow 


Thou by no taint of guilt defiled ; 


Avenger ! I adjure thee now ! 


Kneel not to man ! — for mortal prayer, 


To him V ho bleeds beneath thy steel, 


0, when did mortal vengeance spare ? 


Thy lineage and thy name reveal. 


Since hope of earthly aid is flown. 


And haste thee ! for his closing ear 


Lift thy pure hands to Hpaven alone. 


Hath little -nore on earth to hear — 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



2M 



But dark, terrific, and austere 
"20 hi?n dotli nature's raien appear, 
Who 'midst her wilds AA'ould seek repose 
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes ! 
For him the wind hath music dread, 
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead ; 
Che forest s whisper breathes a tone 
Appalling, as from worlds unknown ; 
The mystic gloom of wood and cave 
[s filled with shadows of the grave ; 
In noon's deep calm the sunbeams dart 
A blaze that seems to search his heart ; 
The pure, eternal stars of night 
Upbraid him with their silent light ; 
And the dread spirit, which pervades 
And hallows earth's most lonely shades. 
In every scene, in every hour, 
Surrounds him with chastising power — 
With nameless fear his soul to thrill, 
tleard, felt, acknowledged, present still ! 

'Twas the chilly close of an autumn day. 
And the leaves fell thick o'er the wanderers' way ; 
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound. 
Foretold the tempest gathering round ; 
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread 
With a tinge of wild and stormy red. 
That seemed, through the twilight forest bowers. 
Like the glare of a city's blazing towers. 
But they, who far from cities fled, 
.\.nd shrunk from the print of human tread. 
Had reached a desert scene unknown. 
So strangely wild, so deeply lone, 
That a nameless feeling, unconfessed 
And undefined, their souls oppressed. 
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurled, 
Lay like the ruins of a w^orld. 
Left by an earthquake's final throes 
In deep and desolate repose — 
Things of eternicy, whose forms 
Bore record of ten thousand storms ! 
While, rearing its colossal crest, 
In sullen grandeur o'er the rest, 
OnG like a pillar, vast and rude. 
Stood monarch of the solitude. 
Perchance by Roman conqueror's hand 
Th' enduring monument was planned ; 
Or r din's sons, in days gone by, 
Had shaped its rough immensity. 
To rear, 'midst mountain, rock, and wood, 
A temple meet for rites of blood. 
But they were gone, who might have told 
That secret of the times of old ; 
A.nd there in silent scorn it frowned 
O'er all its vast coevals round. 



Darkly those giant masses lowered. 
Countless and motionless they towered ; 
No wild flower o'er their summits hung, 
No fountain from their caverns sprung ; 
Yet ever on the wanderers' ear 
Murmured a sound of waters near, 
With music deep of lulling falls, 
And louder gush, at intervals. 
Unknown its source — nor spring nor stream 
Caught the red sunset's lingering gleam, 
But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, 
Arose that mystic voice of waves.* 
Yet bosomed 'midst that savage scene, 
One chosen spot of gentler mien 
Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye 
Of shelter from the tempest nigh. 
Glad sight ! the ivied cross it bore, 
The sculptured saint that crowned its door 
Less welcome now were monarch's dome. 
Than that low cell, some hermit's home. 
Thither the outcasts bent their way, 
By the last lingering gleam of day ; 
When from a caverned rock, which cast 
Deep shadows o'er them as they passed, 
A form, a warrior form of might. 
As from earth's bosom, sprang to sight 
His port was lofty — yet the heart 
Shrunk from him with recoiling start , 
His mien was youthful — yet his face 
Had nought of youth's ingenuous grace ; 
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought 
Its traces on his brow had wrought : 



1 The original of the scene here descrihed is presented 
by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse : — 
" Des masses 6normes de rochers, entassees I'une sur I'autre 
depuis le sommet de la montagne jiisqu';! son pied, viennenl 
y presenter un aspect superbe qu'aucune description ne sau 
rait reiidre. Ce furent, dit-on, des geans, qui en se livrant 
un combat du haut des montagnes, lancerent les uns sur les 
autres ces enormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beau 
coup de peine, jusqu'au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant ui 
sentier qui passe i cote de cette cliaine de rocheK On 
entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venird'uc 
ruisseau au dessous des rochers ; mais on a beau tiescendre 
en se glissant i travers les ouvertures qui s'y trouvent, on m 
decouvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensaule 
se trouve un peu plus haut qii'A la moit.e de la montagne 
c'est un bloc de granit faille i'une lon<.'ueui de 30 pieds et 
d'un diametre de 4 pieds. II y a plus de probabilite de croira 
que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc unc 
colonne pour I'eriger en I'honneur de leur dien Odin, que 
de pretendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Ru 
mains aient eu le dessein de la transi)orter dans leur capitale 
On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d'une forme presqun 
carr6e, qu'on appelle Rieseiialtar, (autel du g^ant,) qui, k 
en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, etait destine i servir d< 
piedestal k la colonnade susdite." — Manuel pour les Voytf 
gcurs sur le Rhin. 



TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 



Lnd the siimmer light is sleeping 

Un the grape, through tendrils peeping ; 

To the haUs where harps are ringing, 

Bards the praise of warriors singing, 

Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly. 

Joyous voices minglmg sweetly ; 

Where the cheek of mirth is glowing. 

And the wine cap brightly flowing. 

He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, 

The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine ! " 

He came — he sought his Ella's bowers, 
He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers ; 
But voice and footstep thence had fled, 
As from the dwellings of the dead, 
And the sounds of human joy and woe 
Gave place to the nxoan of the wave below. 
The banner still the rampart crowned. 
But the tall rank grass waved thick around ; 
Still hung the arms of a race gone by 
In the blazoned walls of their ancestry. 
But they caught no more, at fall of night, 
The wavering flash of the torch's light, 
And they sent their echoes forth no more 
To the Minnesinger's * tuneful lore. 
For the hands that touched the harj) were gone. 
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone ; 
And the soul of the chord lay mute and stiQ, 
Save when the Avild wind bade it thrill, 
And woke from its depths a dreamlike moan. 
For life, and power, and beauty gone. 

The warrior turned from that silent scene. 
Where a voice of woe had welcome been ; 
And his heart was heavy with boding thought. 
As the forest paths alone he sought. 
He reached a convent's fane, that stood 
Deep bosomed in luxuriant wood ; 
Still, solemn, fair — it seemed a spot 
Where earthly care might be all forgot, 
A.nd sounds and dreams of heaven alone 
To musing spu-it might be known. 

A-nd sweet e'en tiis-n were the sounds that 

rose 
On the holy and profound repose. 
0, they came o'er the warrior's breast 
Like a glorious anthem of the blest ; 
And fear and sorrow died away 
Before the full majestic lay. 
He entered ^.he secluded fane. 
Which sent lurth that inspiring strain ; 

1 Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the Ger- 
«»an minstrels in the Midt'le Ages. 



He gazed — the hallowed pile's array 
Was that of some high festal day ; 
Wreathes of all hues its pillars bound. 
Flowers of all scents were strewed around > 
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh. 
Blest on the altar to smile and die ; 
And a fragraiit cloud from the censer's breath 
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath ; 
And still the peal of choral song 
Swelled the resounding isles along ; 
Wakening, in its triumphant flow. 
Deep echoes from the graves below. 

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, 
Doth summer's rose that scene adorn ? 
Why breathes th' incense to the sky ? 
Why swells th' exulting harmony ? 
— And seest thou not yon form, so light 
It seems half floating on the sight. 
As if the whisper of a gale, 
That did but wave its snowy veil. 
Might bear it from the earth afar, 
A lovely but receding star ? 
Know that devotion's shrine e'en now 
Receives that youthful vestal's vow — 
For this, high hymns, sweet odors rise, 
A jubilee of sacrifice ! 
Mark yet a moment ! from her brow 
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, 
Ere yet a darker mantle hide 
The charms to Heaven thus sanctified : 
Stay thee ! and catch their parting gleam, 
That ne'er shall fade from memory's dream. 
A moment ! O, to Ulric' s soul. 
Poised between hope and fear's control. 
What slow, unmeasured hours went hy, 
Ere yet suspense grew certain i,y ! 
It came at length. Once more that face 
Revealed to man its mournful grace; 
A sunbeam on its features foil, 
As if to bear the world's farewell ; 
And doubt was o'er. His heart grew .hill ; 
'Twas she — though changed — 'twas Ella stil 
Though now her once rejoicing naien 
Was deeply, mournfully serene ; 
Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded, 
And the young cheek beneath had faded. 
Well, well he knew the form which cast 
Light on his soul through all the past ! 
'Twas with him on the battle plain, 
'Twas with him on the stormy main : 
'Twas in his visions, wnen the shield 
Pillowed his head on tented field ; 
'Twas a bright beam that led him on 
Where'er a triumph might be won — 



mW CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 2C', 


Lq danger as in glory nigh, 


Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath vieited, 


An angel guide to victory ! 


Can tell thee what is solitude ! 




It is to traverse lifeless plains, 


She caught his pale bewildered gaze 


Where everlasting stillness reigns. 


Of grief half lost in fixed amaze. 


And billowy sands and dazzling sky 


Was it some vain illusion, wrought 


Seem boundless as infinity ! 


By frenzy of impassioned thought ? 


It is to sink, with speechless dread, 


Some phantom, such as grief hath power 


In scenes unmeet for mortal tread; 


To summon in her wandering hour ? 


Severed from earthly being's trace, 


No ! It was he ! the lost, the mourned — 


Alone amidst eternal space ! 


Too deeply loved, too late returned 1 




— A ftvered blush, a sudden start, 


'Tis noon — and fearfully pr»»found. 


Sjioke the last weakness of her heart ; 


Silence is on the desert rom d ; 


'Twas vanquished soon — the hectic red 


Alone she reigns, above, beneath. 


A moment flushed her cheek, and fled. 


With all the attributes of death ! 


Once more serene — her s'.eadfast eye 


No bird the blazing heaven may dare. 


Looked \ip as to Eternity ; 


No insect bide the scorching air ; 


Then gazed on Ulric with an air 


The ostrich, though of sunborn race, 


That said, The home of Love is there ! 


Seeks a more sheltered dwelling-place ; 




The lion slumbers in his lair. 


Yes ! there alone it smiled for him 


The serpent shuns the noontide glare. 


'A'hose eye before that look grew dim. 


But slowly wind the patient train 


Not long 'twas his e'en thus to view 


Of camels o'er the blasted plain, 


The beauty of its calm adieu ; 


Where they and man may brave alone 


Soon o'er those features, brightly pale, 


The terrors of the burning zone. 


Was cast th' impenetrable veil ; 


— Faint not, pilgrims ! though on high. 


And, if one human sigh were given 


As a volcano, flame the sky ; 


By the pure bosom vowed to Heaven, 


Shrink not, though as a furnace glow 


'Twas lost, as many a murmured sound 


The dark-red seas of sand below ; 


Of grief, " not loud, but deep," is drowned, 


Though not a shadow, save your owii, 


In hymns of joy, which proudly rise 


Across the dread expanse is thrown. 


To tell the calm untroubled skies 


Mark ! where your feverish lips to lavu. 


That earth hath banished care and woe, 


Wide spreads the fresh transparent wa-ve ! 


And man holds festivals below ! 


Urge your tired camels on, and take 




Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; 




Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring. 




And fan your brows with lighter wing 


THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 


Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide 




Reflects the date tree on its side — 


Call it not loneliness to dwell 


Speed on ! pure draughts, and genial ais, 


In woodland shade or hermit dell, 


And verdant shade, await you there. 


Or the deep forest to explore. 


0, gUmpse of heaven ! to him unknown 


Or wander Alpine regions o'er ; 


That hath not trod the burning zone ! 


For nature there all joyous reigns. 


Forward they press — thpy gaze dismayci - • 


And fills Avith life her wild domains : — 


The waters of the desert fade ! 


A bird's light wing may break the air, 


Melting to vapors that elude 


A wave, a leaf, may murmur there ; 


The eye, the lip, they vainly wooed 


A bee the mountain flowers may seek. 




A chamois bound from peak to peak ; 


What meteor comes ? A purple ha?e 


An eagle, rushing to the sky. 


Hath half obscured the noontide rays ; * 


Wake the deep echoes with his cry ; 


Onward it moves in swift career. 


And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, 


A blush upon the atmosphere. 


Some voice though not of man is near. 




But he, whose weary step hath traced 


1 The mirage, or vapor assuming the appearance •> 
water. 


Mysterious Afric's awful waste — 


2 See tlie descriotion of the simoom in E'ri'«'«>'s Travels 



408 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


Haste, haste ! tyert th' impending doom, 


Far be the awful shades of those 


Fall prostrate ! tis the dread Simoom ! 


Who deep beneath the sands repose — 


Bow down your faces — till the blast 


The hosts, to whom the desert's breatk 


On its red wing of flame hath passed, 


Bore swift and stern the call of death 


Far bearing o'er the sandy wave 


Sleep ! nor may scorching blast invaJ** 


The viewless Angel of the Grave. 


The freshness of th' acacia shade, 




But gales of heaven your spirits bless, 


It came — 'tis vanished — but hath left 


With life's best balm — Forgetfulnesa 


r^-e wanderers e'en of hope bereft ; 


Till night from many an urn difl"use 


The ardent heart, the vigorous frame. 


The treasures of her world of dews. 


Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame. 




Faint with despondence, worn with toil, 


The day hath closed — the moon on high 


They sink upon the burning soil. 


Walks in her cloudless majesty. 


Resigned, amidst those realms of gloom, 


A thousand stars to Afric's heaven 


To find their death bed and their doom.* 


Serene magnificence have given — 




Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame 


But onward still ! — yon distant spot 


Shines forth eternally the same. 


Of verdure can deceive you not ; 


Blest be their beams, whose holy light 


Yon palms, which tremulously seemed 


Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, 


Reflected as the waters gleamed. 


And lead, as with a track divine. 


Along th' horizon's verge displayed. 


The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine ! 


Still rear their slender colonnade — 


— Rise ! bid your Isle of Palms adieu ! 


A landmark, guiding o'er the plain 


Again your lonely march pursue. 


The Caravan's exhausted train. 


While airs of night are freshly blowing. 


Fair is that little Isle of Bliss, 


And heavens with softer beauty glowing. 


The desert's emerald oasis ! 




A rainbow on the torrent's wave. 


'Tis silence all : the solemn scene 


A gem imbosomed in the grave. 


Wears, at each step, a ruder mien ; 


A sunbeam on a stormy day 


For giant rocks, at distance piled. 


Its beauty's image might convey ! 


Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. 


Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps, 


Darkly they rise — what eye hath viewed 


While silence round her vigil keeps. 


The caverns of their solitude r 




Away ! within those awful cells 


Rest, weary pilgrims ! calmly laid 


The savage lotd of Afric dwells ! 


To slumber in th' acacia shade : 


Heard ye his voice ? — the lion's roar 


Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise 


Swells as when billows break on shore. 


Their aromatic breath diff"use ; 


Well may the camel shake with fear. 


Where softer light the sunbeams pour 


And the steed pant — his foe is near. 


Through the tall palm and sycamore ; 


Haste ! light the torch, bid watchfirei 


And the rich date luxuriant spreads 


throw 


Its pendent clusters o'er your heads. 


Far o'er the waste a ruddy glow ; 


Nature once more, to seal your eyes, 


Keep vigil — guard the bright array 


Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ; 


Of flames that scare him from his prey ; 


Again each heart the music hails 


Within their magic circle press. 


Of rustling leaves and sighing gales : 


wanderers of the wilderness ! 


And 0, to Afric's child how dear 


Heap high the pile, and by its blaze 


The voice of fountains gushing near ! 


Tell the wild tales of elder days, — 


Sweet be your slumbers ! and your dreams 


Arabia's wondrous lore, that dwells 


Of waving groves and ripphng streams ! 


On w^arrior deeds and wizard spells i 


Far be the serpent's venomed coil 


Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these. 


From the brief respite won by toil ; 


Rising to vanish with the breeze ; 




Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that sued 




Their light where mortal may not tread ; 


I The extreme languor and despondence produced by the 
BMKXJin, even wlien its effects are not fatal, have been de- 


And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls 


cnU»d l^ many travellers. 


Th' eternal billow heaves and f ^lls 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 



26i 



— With charms like these, of mystic power, 
Watchers ! beguile the midnight hour. 

Slowly that hour hath rolled away, 
A.nd star by star withdraws its ray. 
Dark children of the sun ! again 
Your own rich Orient hails his reign. 
He comes, but veiled — with sanguine glare 
Tinging the mists that load the air ; 
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, 
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim. 
'Tis death's red banner streams on high — 
Fly to the rocks for shelter ! — fly ! 
Lo ! darkening o'er the fiery skies, 
The pillars of the desert rise ! 
On, in terrific grandeur, wheeling, 
A giant host, the heavens concealing, 
They move, like mighty genii forms, 
Towering immense 'midst clouds and storms. 
Who shall escape ! — with awful force 
The whirlwind bears them on their course ; 
They join, they rush resistless on — 
The landmarks of the plain are gone ; 
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, 
Of those who trod the burning waste ! 
All whelmed, all hushed ! — none left to bear 
Sad record how they perished there ! 
No stone their tale of death shall tell — 
The desert guards its mysteries well ; 
And o'er th' unfathomed, sandy deep. 
Where low their nameless relics sleep. 
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread. 
Nor know his steps are on the dead. 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF 
CARTHAGE. 

[" Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in 
Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the 
Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him : — 
• Marius, I come from the Prtetor Sextilius, to tell you that 
ne forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he 
will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public 
•nemy.' Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with 
grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some 
jme, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect At 
ength the officer inquired what answer he should carry to 
the governor. ' Go and tell him,' said the unfortunate man, 
with a sigh, 'that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting 
on the ruins of Carthage.' " — Plutarch.] 

TwAS noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high 
With fierce resplendence filled th' unclouded sky ; 
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head, 
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ; 
While desolate, beneath a blaze of li^lit, 
Silent and lonely, as at dead of nig^ c, 



The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fan ea 
Had strewed their precious marbie o'er the 

plains : 
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergro'^TT* 
The lizard basked upon the altar stone ; 
Whelmed by the ruins of their own abodes, 
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods ; 
While near — dread offspring of the burmno 

day ! — 
Coiled 'midst forsaken halls the serpent lay. 

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, 
To shelter in that awful solitude. 
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien 
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene : — 
Shadowed, not veiled, by locks of wintry snow 
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrowed brow ; 
Time had not quenched the terrors of his eye, 
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency ; 
While the deep meaning of his features told 
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit rolled. 
Nor dimmed the fire that might not be controlled 
And still did power invest his stately form, 
Shattered, but yet unconquered, by the storm. 
— But slow his step — and where, not yet o'er 

thrown, 
Still towered a pillar 'midst the waste alone, 
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, 
To slumber in its solitary shade. 
He slept — and darkly, on his brief repose, 
Th' indignant genius of the scene arose. 
Clouds robed his dim, unearthly form, and spread 
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, 
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, 
The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain. 
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, 
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn ! 

" And sleep' st thou, Roman ? " cried his voice 

austere ; 
'* Shall son of Latium find a refuge heref 
Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate, 
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage aesolate . 
Go ! with her children's flower, the fres, th« 

brave. 
People the silent chambers of the gia>e! 
So shall the course of ages yet to be 
[More swiftly waft the day avenging me : 

** Yes, from the awful gulf of years to corae, 
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom j 
I see the trophies of her pride decay, 
And her long line of triumphs pass away. 
Lost in the depths of time — while sinks the stai 
That led her march of heroes from afar ! 



2/u 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Lo ! from the frozen forests of the North 
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth ! 
Who shall awake the mighty ? — will thy woe, 
City of thrones ! disturb the realms below ? 
Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries 
Summon their shadowy legions to arise ! 
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls ! 
— Bwbarians revel in their ancient halls, 
And their lost children bend the subject knee, 
Mid it the proud tombs and trophies of the 

free. 
Bird of the sun ! dread eagle ! born on high, 
A creature of the empyreal — thou, whose eye 
Was lightning to the earth — whose pinion waved 
In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved ; 
Sink from thy heavens ! for glory's noon is o'er, 
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more ! 
Closed is thy regal course — thy crest is torn, 
And thy plume banished from the realms of 

morn. 
The shaft hath reached thee ! — rest yvith chiefs 

and kings, 
Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings ; 
Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey, 
And share thy glorious heritage of day ! 
But darker years shall mingle with the past, 
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. 
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread. 
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head. 
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, 
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine : 
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone. 
Calling heroic shades from ages gone. 
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait 
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate ! 

" Still sleep'st thou, Roman ? Son of Victory, 
rise ! 
Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! 
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood 
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood ! 
My children's manes call — awake ! prepare 
The feast they claim! — exult in Rome's de- 
spair ! 
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, 
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies ; 
Let carnage revel e'en her shrines among. 
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young ! 
Haste 1 o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, 
i^d wreak the curse of Carthage on her head ! " 

The vision flies — a mortal step is near, 
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear ; 
He starts, he wakes to woe — before him stands 
Th' unwelcon- ^ messenger of harsh commands, 



Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief 
To seek on other shores a home for grief. 
— Silent the wanderer sat — but on his cheek 
The burning glow far more than words migh 

speak ; 
And from the kindling of his eye there broke 
Language where all th' indignant soul awoke, 
Till his deep thought found voice . then, ealrab 

stern, 
And sovereign in despair, he cried, " Return . 
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen 
Marius, the exile, rest where Cartt£§e once hali 

been ! " 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave, 

Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill. 
The wild wind slumbers in its cave, 

And heaven is cloudless — earth is still ! 
The pile that crowns yon savage height 
With battlements of Gothic might. 

Rises in softer pomp arrayed. 

Its massy towers half lost in shade. 
Half touched with mellowing light ! 
The rays of night, the tints of time, 

Soft mingling on its dark-gray stone. 
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime, 

A placid smile have thrown. 
And far beyond, where wild and high. 
Bounding the pale-blue summer sky, 
A mountaiii vista meets the eye. 
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume 
A pencilled shade, a softer gloom : 
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, 
Its torrents glitter through the night, 
"WTiile ever)-- cave and deep recess 
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. 
Scarce moving on the glassy deep 
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep ; 

But darting from its side. 
How swiftly does its boat design 
A slender, silvery, waving line 

Of radiance o'er the tide ! 
No sound is on the summer seas, 

But the low dashing of the oar, 
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze 

Through woods that fringe the rocky .'i->r«i 
That boat has reached the silent bay — 
The dashing oar has ceased to play ; 
The breeze has murmured and has di<»d 
In forest shades, on ocean's tide. 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



27 



tVo step, no tone, no breath of sound 

Disturbs the loneliness profound ; 

And tnidnight spreads o'er earth and main 

A calm so holy and so deep, 
That voice of mortal were profane 

To break on nature's sleep ! 
It is th'^ hour for thought to soar 

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes ; 
For rapt devotion to adore — 

For passion to repose ; 
And virtue to forget her tears, 
In visions of sublimer spheres ! 
For O, those transient gleams of heaven, 
To calmer, purer spirits given, 
Children of hallowed peace, are known 
In solitude and shade alone ! 
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon. 
To blow beneath the midnight moon, 
The gairish world they will not bless, 
But only live in loneliness ! 

ilark ! did some note of plaintive swell 

Melt on the stillness of the air ? 
Or was it fancy's powerful spell 

That woke such sweetness there ? 
For wild and distant it arose, 
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose, 
When in lone wood, or mossy cave, 
He dreams beside some fountain wave. 
And fairy Avorlds delight the eyes 
Wearied with life's realities. 

Was it illusion ? Yet again 
Rises and falls th' enchanted strain. 

Mellow, and sweet, and faint — 
As if some spirit's touch had given 
The soul of sound to harp of heaven 

To soothe a dying saint ! 
Is it the mermaid's distant shell. 

Warbling beneath the moonlit wave ? 
— Such witching tones might lure full well 

The seaman to his grave ! 
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise. 
Wild, soft, aerial melodies ! 
— Is it the song of woodland fay 

From sparry grot, or haunted bower *, 
Hark ! floating on, the magic lay 

Draws near yon ivied tower ! 
N'ow nearer still, the listening ear 
May catch sweet harp notep, faint yet ^^jc^t ; 
And accents low, as if in fear, 

Thus murmur, half suppressed : — 
'* Awake ! the moon is bright on high, 
Vhe sea is calm, the bark is nigh, 

The world *s hushed to rest ! " 



Then sinks the voice — the strain is o'er. 
Its last low cadence dies along the shore. 

Fair Bertha hears th' expected song, 
Swift from her tower she glides along ; 
No echo to her tread awakes. 
Her fairy step no slumber breaks ; 
And, in that hour of silence deep, 
While all around the dews of sleep 
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, 
Quick throbs her heart with hope and feat 
Her dark eye glistens with a tear. 
Half wavering now, the varying cheek 
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, 
The lip now flushed, now pale as death. 
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath 
O, in that moment, o'er her soul 
What struggling passions claim control ' 
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high. 
By turns have won th' ascendency; 
And as, all tremulously bright. 
Streams o'er her face the beam of night, 
What thousand mixed emotions play 
O'er that fair face, and melt away, 
Like forms whose quick succession gleams 
O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams ; 
Like the swift-glancing lights that rise 
'Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies. 

And traverse ocean o'er ; 
So that in full, impassioned eye 
The changeful meanings rise and die. 

Just seen — and then no more ! 
But O, too short that pause. Again 
Thrills to her heart that witching strain : - 
♦♦ Awake ! the midnight moon is bright ; 
Awake ! the moments wing their flight ; 

Haste ! or they speed in vain ! " 

O call of Love ! thy potent spell 
O'er that weak heart prevails too well ; 
The '• still small voice " is heard no more 
That pleaded duty's cause before. 
And fear is hushed, and doubt is gone, 
And pride forgot, and reason flown ! 
Her cheek, whose color came and fled, 
Resumes its warmest, brightest red. 
Her step its quick elastic tread. 

Her eye its beaming smile ! 
Through lonely court and silent hall 
Flits her light shadow o'er the wall ; 
And still that low, harmonious call 

Melts on her ear the while ! 
Though love's quick ear alone could teU 
The words its accents faintiy swell : — 
" Awake ! while yet the lingering nigh 
And stars and seas befriend our flighr 



272 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


0, haste, while all is well ! " 


Alike in tournament or fight. 


The halls, the courts, the gates are past, 


That ardent spirit found delight ! 


She gains the moonlit beach at last. 


Yet oft, 'midst hostile seer, es afar, 


Who waits to guide her trembling feet ? 


Bright o'er his soul a vision came, 


Who flies the fugitive to greet ? 


Rising like some benignant star 


He, to her youthful heart endeared 


On stormy seas or plains of war. 


By all it e'er had hoped and feared. 


To soothe, with hopes more dear than fama 


1 wined with each wish, with every thought 


The heart that throbbed to Bertha's name ! 


Eact daydream fancy e'er had wrought. 


And 'midst the wildest rage of fight. 


Whose tints portray with flattering skill 


And in the deepest calm of night, 


What brighter worlds alone fulfll ! 


To her his thoughts would wing their flight 


— Alas ! that aught so fair should fly 


With fond devotion warm ; 


Thy blighting wand, Reality ! 


Oft would those glowing tnougnts portray 




Some home from tumults far away. 


A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, 


Graced with that angel form \ 


A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore — 


And now his spirit fondly deems 


Disguise that vainly strove to hide 


Fulfllled its loveliest, dearest dreams ! 


Bearing and glance of martial pride : 




For he in many a battle scene, 


Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, 


On many a rampart breach had been ; 


In minstrel garb attends the chief ? 


Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, 


The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow 


Had seen the valiant bleed and die, 


Reveals a shade of grief. 


And proudly reared on hostile tower. 


Sorrow and time have touched his face 


'Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower. 


With mournful yet majestic grace. 


Britannia's banner high ! 


Soft as the melancholy smile 


And though some ancient feud had taught 


Of sunset on some ruined pile ! 


His Bertha's sire to loathe his name, 


— It is the bard, whose song had power 


More noble warrior never fought 


To lure the maiden from her tower — 


For glory's prize or England's fame. 


The bard, whose wild inspiring lays. 


And well his dark, commanding eye. 


E'en in gay childhood's earliest days. 


And form and step of stately grace. 


First woke, in Osbert's kindling breast. 


Accorded with achievements high. 


The flame that will not be repressed. 


Soul of emprise and chivalry, 


The pulse that throbs for praise ! 


Bright name, and generous race ! 


Those lays had banished from his eye 


His cheek, imbrovmed by many a sun, 


The bright soft tears of infancy. 


Tells a proud tale of glory won, 


Had soothed the boy to calm repose. 


Of vigil, march, and combat rude, 


Had hushed his bosom's earliest woes ; 


\ alor, and toil, and fortitude ! 


And when the light of thought awoke, 


E'en while youth's earliest blushes threw 


When first young reason's dayspring brok* 


Warm o'er that cheek their vivid hue, 


More powerful still, they bade arise 


His gallant soul, his stripling form, 


His spirit's burning energies ! 


" Had braved the battle's rudest storm ; 


Then the bright dream of glory warmed, 


When England's conquering archers stood, 


Then the loud-pealing war song charmed, 


And dyed thy plain, Poitiers ! with blood, 


The legends of rach martial Une, 


When shivered axe, and cloven shield, 


The battle tales of Palestine : 


And shattered helmet, strewed the field. 


And oft, since then, his deeds had proved 


And France around her king in vain 


Themes of the lofty lays he loved ! 


Had marshalled valor's noblest train — 


Now, at triumphant love's command. 


In that dread strife his lightning eye 


Since Osbert leaves his native land, 


Had flashed with transport keen and high. 


Forsaking glory's high career 


And 'midst the battle's wildest tide. 


For her than glory far more dear ; 


Throbbed his young heart with hope and pride. 


Since hope's gay dream and meteor ray- 




To distant regions point his way. 


Alike that fearless heart could brave 


That there Aff"ection's hands may dress 


Heath on the war field or the wave ; 


A fairy bower for happiness ; 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



371 



That fond devoted bard, though now 
Time's wintry garland wreathes his brow, 
Though quenched the sunbeam of his eye, 
A.nd fled his spirit's buoyancy, 
And strength and enterprise arc past. 
Still follows constant to the last ! 
t'hough his sole wish was but to die 
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, 
And all that hallows and endears 
The memory of departed years — 
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined 
To those loved scenes his pensive mind ; 
Ah ! what can tear the links apart 
That bind his chieftain to his heart ? 
What smile but his with joy can light 
The eye obscured by age's night ? 
Last of a loved and honored line, 
Last tie to earth in life's decline, 
Till death its lingering spark shall dim^ 
That faithful eye must gaze on him ! 

Silent and swift, with footstep light, 
Haste on those fugitives of night. 
They reach the boat — the rapid oar 
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore : 
The bark is gained ! A gallant few, 
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew ; 
The pennant, in the moonlight beam, 

With soft suffusion glows : 
From the white sail a silvery gleam 

Falls on the wave's repose ; 
Long shadows undulating play, 
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay; 
But still so hushed the summer air, 
They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair. 
Lest morn's first beam behold them there. 
— Wake, viewless wanderer ! breeze of night ! 
From river wave, or mountain height, 
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, 
By haunted spring in forest bowers ; 
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, 
Li amber grot where mermaids dwell. 
And caverned gems their lustrt throw 
O'er the red sea flowers' vivid glow ! 
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, 
In solitary splendor blaze. 
And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear, 
Swell through the deep's unfathomed sphere ? 
What grove of that mysterious world 
Holds thy light wing in slumber furled ? 
Awake ! o'er glittering seas to rove : 
Awake ! to guide the bark of love ! 
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon 
Shall fade the bright propitious moon ; 
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, 



E'en now — but lo ! the rustling sail 
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale ! 
The bark glides on — their fears are o'er ; 
Recedes the bold romantic shore, 

Its features mingling fast. 
Gaze, Bertha ! gaze : thy lingering eye 
May still each lovely scene descry 

Of years forever past ! 
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade 
With bounding step thy childhood played, 
'Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns. 
Free as their native birds and fawns ; 
Listening the sylvan sounds that floa*' 
On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote — 
The ringdove's deep melodious moan. 
The rustling deer in thickets lone ; 
The wild bee's hum, the aspen's sigh. 
The wood stream's plaintive harmony. 
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour. 
There thy own mountains darkly tower ! 
'Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude 
But thou hast loved its solitude ! 
No path so wild but thou hast known. 
And traced its rugged course alone ! 
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair 
Was twined of glowing heath flowers there. 
There in the dayspring of thy years, 
Undimmed by passions or by tears, 
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye 
Wandered o'er ocean, earth, or sky, 
While the wild breeze, that round thei 

blew. 
Tinged thy warm cheek Avith richer hue. 
Pure as the skies that o'er thy head 
Their clear and cloudless azure spread, 
Pure as that gale whose light wing drew 
Its freshness from the mountain dew, 
Glowed thy young heart with feelings high, 
A heaven of hallowed ecstasy ! 
Such days were thine ! ere love had drawn 
A cloud o'er that celestial dawn ! 
As the clear dews in morning's beam 
With soft reflected coloring stream, 
Catch every tint of Eastern gem, 
To form the rose's diadem. 
But vanish when the noontide hour 
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower - 
Thus in thy soul each calm delight. 
Like morn's first dcAvdrops, pure and bright 
Fled swift from passion's blighting nre 
Or 'Ingered only to expire ! 
Spring on thy native hills again 

Shall bid neglected wild flowers rise, 
And call forth, in each grassy glen. 

Her brightest emerald dye* 1 



274 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


There shall the lonely mountain rose, 


0, many an hoiir has there been thine, 


Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose ; 


That memory's pencil oft shall dress 


'Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream 


In softer shades, and tints that shine 


Shall sparkle in the summer beam ; 


In mellowed loveliness ! 


The birch, o'er precipice and cave, 


"While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, 


Its feathery foliage still shall wave. 


Shall mourn, with fond aiid deep regret 


The ash 'midst rugged clefts \inveil 


The sunshine of thine early years, 


Its coral clusters to the gale. 


Scarce deemed so radiant — till it set ! 


And autumn shed a warmer bloom 


The cloudless peace, unprized till gone, 


O'er the rich heath and glowing broom, 


The bliss, till vanished hardly known ! 


But thy light footstep there no more 




Each path, each dingle shall explore. 


On rock and turret, wood and hill. 


In vain may smile each green recess, 


The fading moonbeams linger still ; 


— Who now shall pierce its loneliness ? 


Still, Bertha ! gaze on yon gray tower, 


The stream through shadowy glens may stray, 


At evening's last and sweetest hour. 


— Who now shall trace its glistening way ? 


While varying still, the western skies 


In solitude, in silence deep. 


Flushed the clear seas with rainbow dyes. 


Snrined 'midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep, 


Whose warm suffusions glowed and passed 


No lute's wild swell again shall rise 


Each richer, lovelier, than the last. 


To wake her mystic melodies. 


How oft, while gazing on the deep, 


All soft may blow the mountain air, 


That seemed a heaven of peace to sleen, 


— It will not wave thy graceful hair ! 


As if its wave, so still, 30 fair, 


The mountain rose may bloom and die, 


More frowning mien might never wear, 


- It will aot meet thy smiling eye ! 


The twilight calm of mental rest 


But like those scenes of vanished days, 


Would steal in silence o'er thy breast. 


Shall others ne'er delight ; 


And wake that dear and balmy sigh 


Far loveUer lands shall meet thy gaze. 


That softly breathes the spirit's harmony ! 


Yet seem not half so bright ! 


— Ah ! ne'er again shall hours to thee m 


O'er the dim woodlands' fading hue 


given 


Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high ; 


Of joy on earth — so near allied to heaven ! 


Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view 




That home of infancy ! 


Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye ? 


Heed not the night dew's chilling power, 


Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh ? 


Heed not the sea wind's coldest hour, 


Is there a grief his voice, his smile, 


But pause and linger on the deck. 


His words, are fruitless to beguile ? 


Till of those towers no trace, no speck, 


— 0, bitter to the youthful heart, 


Is gleaming o'er the main ; 


That scarce a pang, a care has known, 


For when the mist of morn shall rise, 


The hour when first from scenes w^e part, 


Blending the sea, the shore, the skies. 


Where life's bright spring has flown ! 


That home, once vanished from thine eyes, 


Forsaking, o'er the world to roam, 


Shall bless them ne'er again ! 


That little shrine of peice — our home ! 




E'en if delighted fancy throw 


There the dark tales and songs of yore 


O'er that cold world her brightest glow, 


First %vith strange transport thrilled thy sou_, 


Painting its untried paths with flowers. 


rf'en while their fearful mystic lore 


That will not live in earthly bowers, 


From thy warm cheek the lifebloom stole. 


(Too fi-ail, too exquisite, to bear 


There, while thy father's raptured ear 


One breath of life's ungenial air ;) 


Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear. 


E'en if such dreams cf hope arise 


And in his eye the trembling tear 


As heaven alone can realize. 


Kcvcaled his spirit's trance. 


Cold were the breast that would not neave 


How oft, those echoing halls along. 


One sigh, the home of youth to leave ; 


Thy thrilling voice has swelled the song — 


Stern were the heart that would not swell 


Tradition wild of other days. 


To breathe life's saddest word — farewell I 


'")r troubadour's heroic lays, 


Though earth has many a deeper woe, 


Or legend of rcraance ! 


Though tears more bitter far must flow, 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEF^TH CENTURY. 



Tnat hour, whate'er our future lot, 
That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot ! 

Such was the pang of Bertha's heart. 
The thought, that bade the teardrop start ; 

And Osbcrt by her side 
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell 
Nature's fond struggle told too well ; 
And days of future bliss portrayed, 
\nd love's own eloquence essayed, 

To soothe his plighted bride ! 
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells, 

In tl^at sweet land to which they fly ; 
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells, 

Of blooming Italy. 
For he had roved a pilgrim there. 
And gazed on many a spot so fair 
It seemed like some enchanted grove, 
Where only peace, and joy, and love. 
Those exiles of the world, might rove, 

And breathe its heavenly air ; 
And, all unmixed with ruder tone. 
Their " wood notes wild " be heard alone ! 
Far from the frown- of stern control. 
That vainly would subdue the soul. 
There shall their long- affianced hands 
Be joined in consecrated bands. 
And in some rich, romantic vale, 

Circled with heights of Alpine snow. 
Where citron woods enrich the gale, 
And scented shrubs their balm exhale, 

And flowering myrtles blow ; 
And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high 
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry ; 
On some bright streamlet's emerald isle, 
Where cedars wave in graceful pride, 
Bosomed in groves, their home shall rise, 
A sheltered bower of paradise ! 
Thus would the lover soothe to rest 
With tales of hope her anxious breast ; . 
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore 
Her soul's bright visions to restore, 
And bid gay phantoms of delight 
Float in soft coloring o'er her sight. 
— O Youth ! sweet May morn, fled so soon< 
Far brighter than life's loveliegt noon, 
How oft thy spirit's buoyant power 
Wiil triumph e'en in sorrow's hour, 

Prevailing o'er regret ! 
As rears its head th' elastic flower. 
Though the dark tempest's recent shower 

Hang on its petals yet ! 

Ah ! not so soon can hope's gay smile 
The aged bard to joy beguile ; 



Those silent years that steal away 

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray^ 

Win from the mind a nobler prize. 

E'en all its buoyant energies ! 

For him the April days are past. 

When grief was but a fleeting clouH ; 
No transient shade will sorrow cast, 

When age the spirit's might has bowed I 
And, as he sees the land grow dim, 
That native land now lost to him. 
Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his hands, 
And long in speechless grief he stands : 

So desolately calm his air. 
He seems an image wrought to bear 
The stamp of deep, though hushed despair. 
Motion and life no sign bespeaks. 
Save that the night breeze, o'er his cheeX^ 

Just waves his silvery hair ! 
Nought else could teach the eye to know 
He was no sculptured form of woe ! 
Long gazing o'er the darkening flood. 
Pale in that silent grief he stood. 
Till the cold moon was waning fast. 

And many a lovely star had died, 
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast 

Far o'er the slumbering tide ; 
And, robed in one dark solemn hue. 
Arose the distant shore to view. 
Then, starting from his trance of woe, 
Tears, long suppressed, in freedom flow, 
While thus his wild and plaintive strain 
Blends with the murmur of the main 

THE bard's farewell. 

♦* Thou setting moon ! when next thy rays 
Are trembling on the shadowy deep, 
The land, now fading from thy gaze. 

These eyes in vain shall weep ; 
And wander o'er the lonely sea, 
And fix their tearful glance on thee - 
On thee ! whose light so softly gleanw 
Through the green oajts that fringe my natif < 
streams. 

" But 'midst those ancient groves no tl. we 

Shall I thy quivering lustre hail ; 

Its plaintive strain my harp mtist pour 

To swell a foreign gale. 
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke 
When its full tones their stillness broke. 
Deserted now, shall hear alone [moau 

The brook's wild voice, the wind's my«teriou« 

•• And O, ye fair, forsaken halls, 
Left by your lord to slow decay, 



276 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Soon shall the trophies on your walls 

Be moulderiog fast away ! 
There shall no choral songs resound, 
There shall no festal board be crowned 5 
But ivy wreathe the silent gate, 
Knd all be hushed, and cold, and desolate. 

•' No banner from the stately tower 

Shall spread its blazoned folds on high ; 
There the wild brier and summer flower, 

Unmarked, shall wave and die. 

Home of the mighty ! thou art lone, 

The noonday of thy pride is gone, 

And, 'midst thy solitude profound, 

A step shall e-ch i like unearthly sound ! 

" From thy cold hearths no festal blaze 
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, 
Nor welcome with convivial rays 

Some pilgrim of the night. 
But there shall grass luxuriant spread. 
As o'er the dwellings of the dead ; 
And the deep swell of every blast 
Beem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past. 

' And I — my joy of life is fled, 

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow ; 
The raven locks that graced my head 

Wave in a wreath of snow ! 
And where the star of youth arose 
I deemed life's lingering ray should close. 
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade, 
Beneath whose arclfing bowers my childhood 
played. 

*' Vain dream ! that tomb 'n distant earth 

Shall rise. forsak*?xi and forgot ; 
And thou, sweet land that gav'st me birth ! 

A grave must yield me not. 
Yet, haply, he for Avhom I leave 
Thy shores, in life's dark winter eve, 
When cold the hand, and closed the lays, 
And mute the voice he loved to praise. 
O'er the hushed harp one tear may shed, 
k.n 1 one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed ! " 



• BELSIIAZZAR'S FEAST. 

TwAS night in Babylon : yet many a beam, 
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, 
WTiose azure knows no cloud : each whispered sigh 



Of the soft night breeze through her terraci 

bowers 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers : 
And the glad city's voice went up from ail hei 

towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall. 
Where 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band» 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand 
Had showered around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East ; all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back ; all sweets of many a land 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore. 
— But mortal pride looked on, and still de- 
manded more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell th' exulting strain ! 
The lord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane. 
Thrice holy vessels ! — pure from earthly stain, 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him 
Who deigned within the oracle to reign. 
Revealed yet shadowed ; making noonday dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the cher- 
ubim. 

They came, and louder pealed the voice of song, 
And pride flashed brighter from the kindling eye ; 
And He who sleeps not heard th' elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cups of consecrated gold ! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, 
And bid the censers of the temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old 

Peace ! — is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadowed forth, the senses to appall, 
Yon fearful vision ? Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause ? Along the illumined wall 
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all. 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand. 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall. 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far 
distant land ! 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board 
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low 
And fitful starts ! — the wine, in triumph poured 
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 



27: 



I'lie waving censer drops to earth — and lo ! 
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, 
Trembles before a shadow ! Say not so ! 
- The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight. 
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, th' avenging 
Lafinite ! 

•*But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers. 
The men of prescience ! Haply to their eyes. 
Which track the future through the rolling 

spheres, 
Yor mystic sign may speak in prophecies." 
XLey come — the readers of the midnight skies, 
They that gave voice to visions — but in vain ! 
Still wrapped in clouds the awful secret lies. 
It hath no language 'midst the starry train, 
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven's mysteries 

to explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration ! — one of those 
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, 
And sat and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose 
Of his pure features half o'erawed the mind ; 
Telling of inward mysteries — joys and woes 
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined ; 
Depths of a being sealed and severed from man- 
kind. 

Yes ! — what was earth to him, whose spirit 



Time's utmost bounds ? on whose unshrinking 

sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Their full resplendence? Majesty and might 
Were in his dreams ; for him the veil of light 
Shrouding Heaven's inmost sanctuary and 

throne, 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright, 
Was raised ! — to him, in fearful splendor shown, 
Ancient of Days ! e'en Thou mad'st thy dread 

presence known. 

He spoke — the shadows of the things to come 
Passed o'er his soul : — " O King, elate in pride ! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom — 
The One, the living God, by thee defied ! 
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, 
Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'Tis 

decreed 
rhe conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide. 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed ! 
tliy days are full : they come, — the Persian and 

the Mede ! " 



There fell a moment's thrilling silence r und — 
A breathless pause ! — the hush of hearts thaf 

beat, 
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a soiind, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet ? 
— 'Twas but some echo in the crowded street, 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song, 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course g'oiig- • 
Away ! nor let a dream disturb the festal t.iron^ 

Peace yet again ! Hark ! steps in tumult flying, 
Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle field ! 
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying. 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield ! 
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst ; and, blent with 

these, 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom ia 

sealed 
In their full mirth ! — all deepening on the breeze, 
As the long stormy roll of far- advancing seas ! 

And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling, 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry ; 
And, lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, 
Death — bursting on the halls of revelry ! 
Ere on their brows one fragile rose leaf die, 
The sword hath raged through joy's devot<»d 

train ; 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 
lied flames, like banners, wave from dome an<^ 

fane ; 
Empire is lost and won — Belshazzar with the 

slain.' 



[Belshazzar's Feast had previously been published in tb« 
Collection of Poems from Living Authors, edited for a benev- 
olent purpose by Mrs. Joanna Baillie. — Mimoir, p. G8. 

" Miss Baillie's volume contained several poems by Mrs. 
Heraans ; some jeux (P esprit by the late Miss Catherine FaH 
shawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose societj 
Scott greatly delighted ; and, inter alia, Mr. William ilowi 
son's early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally 
published, under Scott's auspices, in the Edinburgh Eegisw 
for 1810. — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. v. p. 2^^ 

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter's ovvi Mac- 
duff's Cross," and Southey's lively and eccentric nurierj 
rhymes on tlie " Cataract of Lodoar," first made thei/ ap. 
pearance in the collection referred to.] 



1 As originally written, the following additional 
(afterwards omitted) concluded this poem : — 

Fallen is the golden city I In the dust. 
Spoiled of her crov/n, dismantled of her state, 
She that h«th made the strength of towers her tma* 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate 1 
She that beheld the uatious at her gutc. 



m 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

" Thou strivest nobly, 
When hearts of sterner stutf perhaps had sunk. 
And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed. 
Good men will mourn, and braye men will shed teara 

Fame I look not for ; 
But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye. 
Before my fellow-men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
Th 5 dignity and honor of a man. 
Thus stationed as I am, I will do all 
That roan may do." 

Miss Baillie's " Constantine Palaeologus." 



The fires g/ew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
— Shout for the City of the Constantines, 
The rising city of the billow side, 
The City of the Cross ! — great ocean's bride, 
Crowned with her birth she sprung ! Long ages 

past, 
And still she looked in glory o'er the tide, 
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast, 
Poured by the burning East all joyously and fast. 



Long ages past ! — they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broidered her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frowned in their strength ; yet there were signs 
which told 



Thronging in homage, shall be called no more 
Lady of kingdoms I Who shall mourn her fate ? 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er— 
What widowed land shall now her widowhood deplore f 

Sit thou in silence I Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters I — thou, whose augurs read 
The language of the planets, and disowned 
The mighty Name it blazons 1 — veil thy head. 
Daughter of Babylon I The sword is red 
From thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said. 
" I am, and none beside 1 " • Th' Eternal spoka 
Thy glory was a spoil, ihine idol gods were broke 

But go thou forth, O Israel 1 — wake 1 rejoice 1 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day I 
Keaew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice. 
The mirth of timbrels I — loose the chain, and say 
God hath redeemed his people! — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise I 
Awake 1 — put on thy beautiful array, 
O long-forsaken Zion I — to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies I 

And lift thy head I — Behold thy sons returning. 
Redeemed from exile, ransomed from the chain. 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning ; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain. 
Because her children were not. dwells again 
Girt with the lovely 1 Throufih thy streets once more. 
City of God 1 shall pass the bridal train. 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, 
Ind the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore I 



The days were full. The pure, high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmured if a rose leafs fold 
Disturbed her dreams ; and called her slavc-s- tf 

keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might read 

her o'er the deep. 



But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury wooed ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter and the wine cup flows 
And darker hues have stained the marble, 

strewed 
With the fresh myrtle and the short-livt d rose ; 
And Parian walls have rung to the dreul march 

of foes. 



A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Remote, yet solemn as the night storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds 

bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crowned Eurotas ; when, of old. 
Dark Asia sent her battle myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave, which would not be con- 
trolled. 
But past the Persian's chain in boundless free- 
dom rolled. 



And it is thus again ! Swift oars are dashing 

The parted waters, and a light is cast 

On their white foam wreaths, from the suddeu 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep, 
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are 



Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors 
sleep, 

O'ershadowing with high names each rude se- 
pulchral heap. 



War from the West ! — the snows on Thraiian 

hiUs 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'ei 

the lands 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



271 



Wlieli Ha.'inus girds, the chainless mountain rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East ! — 'midst Araby's lone sands, 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior hands 
.Against the Golden City of the Sea.' 

U for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylae ! 



flear yet again, ye mighty ! — "Where are they 
Who, with their green OljTnpic garlands crowned, 
Leaped up in proudly beautiful array. 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 



Of Persia's clari 



Far and joyous round, 



From the pine forests, and the mountain snows, 

And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 

Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they 

rose ! 
— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's 



repose r 



VIII. 



They slumber with their swords ! — the olive 

shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 
[n vain the spirit of the past pervades 
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian 

vale. 
Yet must thou wake, though all unarmed and 

pale, 
Devoted City ! Lo ! the Moslem's spear, 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
— Awake ! and summon those who yet, per- 
chance, may hear ! 



Fe hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weep- 
ing ! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high. 
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales ! The sons of each brave line 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, 
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's 

shrine. 
And wield for you the swords once waved for 
Palestine ! 



1 The army of Mohammed the Second, at the siege of 
t'onstantinople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and 
nations, who were not enrolled amongst the regular troops. 
The sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople ; 
mt h-s army must have been principally collected in the 
>8iaiic provinces, which he had previously visited. 



All still, all voiceless ! — and the billow's row 
Alone replies ! Alike their soul is gone 
"Who shared the funeral feast on CEta's shore. 
And theirs that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swelled the crusader's hymn ! Then gird thou ol 
Thine armor, Eastern Queen ! and meet the houj 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work it 

done 
With a strong heart : so may thy helmet tower 
Unshivered through the storm, for generous hope 

is power ! 



But linger not — array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming 

bright. 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment hath its sound of feai, 
Which the deep grave alone is chartered not to 

hear ! 



Away ! bring wine, bring odors to the shade • 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight, — since we must 

die! — 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by. 
For feast in vine-wreathed bower or pUlared 

hall; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky. 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call. 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will 

fall. 



The night — the glorious Oriental night — 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light, 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendor drivei*. 
To the still firmament's expanse hath giren 
Its own fierce glare, w^herein each clifi" andtowej 
Starts wildly forth ; and now the air is riven 
With thunderbursts, and now dull smoke cloud* 

lower, 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallowed 

hour. 

2 " Hue vina, et iinguenta, et nimium breves 
Flores amoena ferre jube rosae."— Hoa*<--B 



zSO 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle ! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To faith and courage ! From liLxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas, 
From the Seven Towers/ their banner waves its 

sign ; 
Ana Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze. 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was 

thine ; 
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 



Was Rome thy parent ? Didst thou catch from 

her 
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye ? 
— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die ! 
Heir of the Caesars I did that lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath passed 
With its long march of spectred imagery," 
rh' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
Thou ! of an eagle race the noblest and the 

last! 



Vain dreams ! Upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the Living Fountain, whence each 

thought 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with earth's triumphant memories 

fraught. 
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust. 
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought 
(Though through its veil seen darkly from the 

dust) 
In realms where Time no more hath power upon 

the just. 



rhose were proud days, when on the battle 

plain, 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst th' array 

1 1 114 Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the 
Byzantine history as early as the sixth century of the Chris- 
Ban era, as an edifice which contributed materially to the 
defence of Constantinople ; and it was the principal bulwark 
»f the town, on the coast of the Propontis, in the later pe- 
riods of the empire. For a description of this building, see 
Pouqueville's Travels. 

2 An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in proces- 
nion, at the Kinerals of their great men, the images of their 
vicestors. 



Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the sltin, 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,^ 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands at his voice who started, 
Called on the unseen terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then, fear- 
less hearted. 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the gra>c 
departed ! 



But then, around him as the javelins rushed, ^ 
From earth to heaven swelled up the loud ac- 
claim ; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation guinea. 
With a bright smile, the warrior caugnt his nam« 
Far floating on the winds ! Ana Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life, in fiery feeling ! Valor's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed 
Was to be Rome's high star ! — He died • - and 
had his meed. 



But praise — and dearer, holier praise be theirs, 

Who, in the stillness and the solitude 

Of hearts pressed earthwards by a weight of 

cares, 
Uncheered by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal 

food 
Of restless energies, and only viewed 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne. 
Is on the soul's dark places, have subdued 
And vowed themselves, with strength till then 

unknown, 
To some high martyr task, in secret and alone. 



3 The following was the ceremony of consecration with 
which Decius devoted himself in battle: — He was ordered 
by Valerius, the Pontifex Maximus, to quit his niilit;»rj' habit, 
and put on the robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then 
covered his head with a veil, commanded him to put forth 
his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing with both 
feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words: — "O Janus, 
Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona ! and ye. Lares and Noven- 
siles! all you heroes who dwell in heaven I and ail ye 
gods who rule over us and our enemies — especially ye god^ 
of hell ! — I honor you, invoke you, and humbiy entreat you 
to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all feai 
and terror from them to their enemies ; and I do, for the 
safety of the Roman people, and their legions, devote myseM 
and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, \i) 
the infernal gods, and tlie goddess of the earth." Deems 
then, girding his robe around them, mounted his horse, and 
rode full speed into the thickest of the enemy's battaliona 
The Latins were for a while thunderst^ick at tins spectacle 
but at length recovering themselves, they discharged a shew 
er of darts, under w>)icli tlie consul fell. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



Theirs be *he bright and sacred names, enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charmed man- 
kind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for thence 

arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 



Well might thy name, brave Constantine ! awake 
Such thought, such feeling ! — But the scene 

again 
iJursts on my vision, as the daybeams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists : the camp, 

the plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capped fane, 
With its bright cross fixed high in crowning 

grace ; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main. 
And, circling all with arms, that turbaned race — 
The sun, the desert, stamped in each dark 

haughty face. 



Shout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters ! * Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile ! They crowd the swell- 
ing sail. 
On, with the foam, the sunbeam, and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car ! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling 

veil 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before ! 
— And O, the glorious burst of that bright sea 
and shore ! 



l*.s rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's 

coast. 
All thronged ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch, girt ^s-ith his barbaric host. 
Points o'er the beach his flashing cimeter ! 



* See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five 

Christian ships, with men and provisions for the succor of 

tbe besieged, not many days before the fall of Constantino- 

»le — Decline aiv* Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215. 

36 



Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement. 
Decks, Avith their serried guns, arrayed to bai 
The promised aid : but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! — the Moslem line u 
rent ! 



On, on through rushing flame and arrowy «howei , 
The welcome prows have cleft their r' pid way , 
And, with the shadows of the vespei hour. 
Furled their white sails, and anchored in the bay 
Then were the streets with song and torchfirc 

gay, 

Then the Greek wines flowed mantling in the 

light 
Of festal halls ; and there was joy ! — the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright — 
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight 



For vain that feeble succor ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 
Comes powerfvd, as when Heaven unbinds the 

deep ! 
— Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and 

sleep 
Flies far ; and in their mien, the walls who tread, 
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be 

read! 



It was a sad and solemn task, to hold 
Their midnight watch on that beleaguered ill ! 
As the sea wave beneath the bastions rolled, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ; 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall, 
The giant shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's ; a low mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain, 
A voice of omens rose with each wild maitvaJ 
strain. 



For they might catch the Arab chargers neighinj. 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song ; 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying. 
The watchword muttered in some eastern tongue. 
Then flashed the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose • 
And boding thoughts >- -vavc o'er them, dark an<J 
strong ; 



For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Tho see their numbered hours fast pressing to 
the close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the Mightiest ! There is one 

Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, 

Wliose cheek grows paler v^^ith each morning sun, 

And tells in silence how the night hath been 

In kingly halls a vigil : yet serene 

The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye ; 

And there is that in his collected mien, 

To which the hearts of noble men reply 

With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality ! 



Yes ! call it not of lofty minds the fate 
To pass o'er earth in brightness but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own ! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be. 
Still following fast ; as when the wind hath blown 
O'er Indian groves,' a wanderer wild and free. 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to 
tree ! 



And it is thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Caesar ! — yet the few. 
That set their generous bosom to the blast 
Which rocks .thy throne — the fearless and the 

true, 
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years gone by. 
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength ! States vanish — ages fly — 
But leave one task unchanged — to sufl'er and 

to die ! 



These are our nature's heritage. But thou, 
Th« crowned with empire ! thou wert called to 

share 
A cup more bitter. On thy fevered brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 

1 " The summits of the lofty rocks in the Camatic, par- 
ticularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the 
bamboo tree, which grows in thick clumps, and is of such 
ancommon aridity that, in the sultry season of the year, the 
friction occasioned by a strong, dry wind will literally pro- 
duce sparks of fire, which, frequently setting the woods in a 
blaze, exhibit to the spectator, stationed in a valley surround- 
id by rocks, a magnificent though imperfect circle of fire." 
— J^otes to KiNDEBSLEv'8 Specimens of Hindoo Literature. 



"Which long had passed away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that 

came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care, 
And with all this to smile ! For earth-borr 

frame 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 

to fame ! 



Her glance is on the triumph, on the field. 
On the red scaffold ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steeled 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might. 
Yet are proud Nature's ! But her meteor light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds ; it falls not 

where 
In silence, and in secret, and in night. 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair. 
And rise more strong than death from its un 

witnessed prayer. 

XXXIII. 

Men have been firm in battle ; they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, 
And won the birthright of their hearths witl. 

blood. 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes. 
That so their children, undefiled with chains. 
Might worship there in peace. But they that 

stand 
When not a beacon o'sr the wave remains. 
Linked but to perish with a ruined land. 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a 

martyr band ! 

xxxrv. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, per- 
chance, 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage, where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must 

die. 
Recked not which champion ; but prepared the 

strain. 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory. 
To greet the conqueror ; while with cala. dis 

dain, 
The vanquished proudly met the doom he met 



XXXV. 

The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is traugm 

With this of Liberty, that now the need 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE 



283 



ts past to veil the brow of anxious thought, 
Ajid clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed, 
With Hope's fair seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by misery : one alone 
Is left th^ brave, and rest shall be thy meed, 
Prince, watcher, wearie<3 one ! when thou hast 

shown 
flow briff the cloudy space which parts the 

grave and throne. 

XXXVI. 

The signs aj'e full. They are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air. 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears : no meteor banners glare, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair ; 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thinned ramparts, in the pale despair 
Wliich lends one language to a people's mien, 
And in the ruined heaps where wall and towers 
have been ! 

xxxvn. 

It ii3 a night of beauty : such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel shade, 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, 
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and 

glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest haunts ; a night to rove alone 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

swayed. 
And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone 
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds 

unknown ; 

XXXVIII. 

A night to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards ; a night to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of 

old; 
a'^. night for mourners, o'er the hallowed mould, 
To strew sweet flowers — for revellers to fill 
And wreathe the cup — for sorrows to be told 
Which love hath cherished long. Vain thoughts ! 

be still ! 
It is a night of fate, stamped with Almighty 

WiU! 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rend- 
ing 
rhe ancient summits in its dread career ! 



And with vast billows wrathfiiUy contending. 
And with dark clouds o'ershadowing ever^ 

sphere ! 
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with 

fear. 
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low. 
Alike in His omnipotence is near. 
When the soft winds o'er spring's green pathway 

blow, 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch 

mountain's brow. 



The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hushed Bosphorus, w^hose ocean stream 
Sleeps with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus,* in the moonlight gleam, 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Thronged it with gods, and bent th' adoring 

knee ; 
— But that is past — and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea. 
And Time, which presses on to finish his decree 



Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might. 
Brooding in clouds above your forest zones, 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with 

night : 
Ye have looked down on battles — Fear and 

Flight. 
And armed Revenge, all hurrying past below : 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared than e'er, with tranquil brow, 
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude anr' 

snow ! 



Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hills refichoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth ! Wild horn and war steeds' 

tramp 
Blent with the sound of barbarous revelry, 
The clash of desert spears ! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on. 
Caught from red watchfires, blazing far and high, 
And countless as the flames in ages gone. 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from 

shadowy Lebanon ! 

1 Those who steer their westward course through tha 
middle of the Propontis may at once descry the high landi 
of Thrace and Bithynia, and never lose sight of the lofty 
eiimmit of Mount Olympus, covered with ete^na' snow* 
— Decline and Fall, &c., vol. iii. u- 8. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



xLin. 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which wraps those Eastern thousands ? Yes ! 

perchance 
'Vlong yon moonli shore and dark-blue deep, 
Bright are their visions with the Houris' glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed 
Rich odors o'er the faithful ; but the lance. 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers 

spread, 
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside 

the dead. 



May this be sleep, this hush ? — A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race ! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny 
E'en now is gazing on the skies to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of 

space, 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 
Kindles beneath their aspect,* and his mien, 
All fired with stormy j oy, by that soft light is seen. 



O, wild presumption of a conqueror's dream. 
To gaze on those pure altar fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood! But with the restless 

mind 
It Lath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assigned 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep. 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon 

must sleep. 



But ye ! that beamed on Fate's tremendous 

night. 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon ; 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won ; 
And ye, that calmly viewed the slaughter done 
hi Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet 

blast 
Rang through the Capitol . bright spheres ! 

roll on ! 

1 Mohammed II. was greatly addicted to the study of 
(strology. His calculations in this science led him to fix 
upon the niorninij of the 29th of May as the fortunat* ^o\xt 
'or a gereral attack npon tlie city. 



Still bright, though empires fall and bid man 

cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and (lommune "v\itli 

the past. 



For it hath mighty lessons ! from the tomb. 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the AVTecked cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair, 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the mid- 
night air, 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, 
And thrills the soul ; — yet bids us not despair, 
But make one Rock our shelter and our stay. 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to de 
cay ! 



The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam, 
O'er the hushed waters tremulously fall. 
Poured from the Caesars' palace ; now the 

beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall. 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky. 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

XLIX. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound ! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round, 
Tells the hushed seaman, gliding past the 

shore, 
How monarchs revel there \ Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade ? 
— I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade. 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 

were made ! 



In silence, and in arms ! With helm — witl: 

sword — 
These are no marriage garments ! Vet e'en noTV 
Thy nuptial feast should grace tht regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely 

brow 
With an imperial diadem ! ' — but thou, 

2 Constantine Palaeologus was betrothed to a Georgiai 
princess ; and the very spring which witnessed the fall o 
Constantinople had been fixed upon as the time for convey 
ing the imperial bride to tliat city. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



281 



fated prince ! art, called, and these with thee, 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learned to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, 
And count it joy enough to perish — being free ! 



On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, 
As men, that in some time of fear and woe, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow. 
The warriors pass ; their measured steps are slow. 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls. 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls, 
Sad seems the light itself which on their armor 
faUs ! 



And they have reached a gorgeous chamber, 

bright 
With all we dream of splendor ; yet a gloom 
Seems gathered o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb ! 
Still from its fretted i -lof the lamps illume 
A purple can >py, a golden throne ; 
But it is emptj ! — hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already ? Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone ? 



O, there are times whose pleasure doth efi'ace 
P'.arth's vain distinctions ! When the storm 

beats loud. 
When the strong towers are tottering to their 

base. 
And the streets rock, — who mingle in the 

crowd ? 
— Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng ! Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening 

bowed. 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower. 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power ! 



Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high. 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak. 
In the deep human heart, more gloriously 
Than in the bursting thunder ! Thence the weak, 
Ihey that seemed foimed, as flower stems, but 

to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose 

name 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek. 



And thrills the pulse ! — Ay, strength no pangi 

could tame 
Hath looked from woman's eye upon the swora 

and flame ! 



And this is of such hours ! — That throne is void. 
And its lord comes uncrowned. Behold him 

stand. 
With a calm brow, where woes have no* de- 
stroyed 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midst his band, 
The gathered virtue of a sinking land - 
Alas ! how scanty ! Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ; each noble hand 
Is pressed by turns in his : for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hop« 
hath died ! 



A moment's hush — and then he speaks — he 

speaks ! 
But not of hope ! that dream hath long gone by ; 
His words are full of memory — as he seeks, 
By the strong names of Rome and Libert}^ 
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye. 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall . 

LVII. 

His words are full of faith ! — and thoughts, 

more high 
Than Rome e'er knew, now fill his glance with 

light ; 
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die, 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty 

might ! 
And to that eye, with all the spiiit bright. 
Have theirs replied in tears, wliich may not 

shame 
The bravest in such moments ! 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendors cold and tame, 
— That generous burst of soul, with its electric 

flame ! 



They weep — those champions of the Cross - 

they weep, 
Yet vow themselves to death ! Ay, 'midst thai 

train 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice ! The pang is vain. 
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 



286 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



A. warrior's sword. Those men axe strangers 

here : * 
The homes they never may behold again 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, 
On laughing shores, to which their barks no 

more shall steer ! 



Kjsow'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers ? ^ 
WTiere, through dark foliage, gleam the citron's 

dyes ? 
— It is their own. They see their fathers' 

towers 
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise : 
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sails' return ; the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain — 
O, what a crowded world one moment may 

contain ! 



Such moments come to thousands ! — few may' 

die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the 

brave, 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wave 
Are scattered fast and far, as rose leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall ; 
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope 

to all ! 

LXI. 

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell. 
Though they were those once blooming at our 

side 
In youth's gay home ! Away ! what sound's 

deep swell 
Comes on the wind ? — It is an empire's knell. 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night ! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn beU 
Wliich calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 

1 Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble 
Mcind for the Uberties, or rather the honor, of a falling era- 
•ire, were foreigners, and chiefly Italians. 

2 This and the next line are an almost literal translation 
♦om a beautiful song of Goethe's : — 

" KcDnst du dafl land, wo die zltronen bluhn 
Wit dunkeln laub die gold orangen gluhn ? " etc 



Again, and yet again ! A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever ; for they bear. 
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour 
Checkering life's crowded path. They fill tlie ai: 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's ; and when your brides are led 
From their paternal homes ; and when the glar< 
Of burning streets on midnight's cloud waves red 
And when the silent house receives its guest — 
the dead.^ 



But to those tones what thrilling soul wa« 

given 
On that last night of empire ! As a spell 
Whereby the lifeblood to its source is driven, 
On the chilled heart of multitudes they fell. 
Each cadence seemed a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away, 
An angel watcher's long and sad farewell. 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth'a 

decay. 



Again, and yet again ! — from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awf'lly; and they 
Who never more, to rest in mortal home, 
ShaU throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band, in close and armed array, 
As men that from the sword must part no 

more, 
Take through the midnight streets their silent 

way. 
Within their ancient temple to adore, 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp 



It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 
O'er which Forgetfulness her balm hath shed 
In the beleaguered city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread 
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread. 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised ti. 

greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street. 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscioui 

why they meet. 

' The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplifiH 
in Schiller's poem, " Das Lied der Glocke." 



THE LAST CONSTANTIXE 



287 



LXVI. 

rheir homes are luxury's yet ; why pour they 

thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye ? 
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence, 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels rolled by, 
A.nd rocked their palaces, as if on high 
The whirlwind passed ? From couch and joyous 

board 
JIath the fierce phantom beckoned them to die ! * 
— No ! — what are these ? — for them a cup is 

poured 
More dark with wrath : man comes — the spoiler 

and the sword. 



Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch- 
light throws 
On some wild form, amidst the li\Tjig mass, 
Hues, deeply red like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes ! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands elasj)ed 

in prayer. 
Starts, tremblings, hurrjings, tears ; all outward 

shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there : 
Greeks ! Romans ! all but such as image brave 
)air ! 



But high above that scene, in bright repose. 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no lifeblood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems, 
Pale, grand, colossal : lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore ! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble 

wrought, 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion ! Yet 'twas man that caught, 
And in each glorious form enshrined, immortal 

thought ! 



Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome ? 
That Rome which witnessed, in her sceptred 

days, 
So much of noble death ? When shrine and 

dome. 
Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays, 

1 It is said to be a Greek superstition, that the plague is 
IJinounced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot heard 
in the streets ai midnight, and also by the appearance of a 
figantic spectre w lo summons the devoted person by name. 



I As the long triumph passed, with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
O sovereign forms ! concentring all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? — did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, anc 
to mourn ? 



Hath it been thus ? — Or did ye grace the halls 
Once peopled by the mighty ? Haply there. 
In your still grandeur, from the pillared walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,' 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself tc 

dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crowned goblet's 

flow. 
— Behold again ! — high hearts make nobler of 

ferings now ! 

LXXI. 

The stately fane is reached — and at its gate 
The warriors pause. On life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state 
Hath marked from all, to be more sternly triec 
By suflering, speaks — each ruder voice han 

died, 
Wliile his implores forsjiveness ! — "If there b 
One 'midst your throngs, my people ! whom, ij 

pride 
Or passion, I- have wronged, such pardon free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man 

to me ! " 



But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies ! He hath r ot been of those 
Who, feared by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environed but by slaves and foes, 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose. 
For they have heard the voice cry, ** Sleep m 

more!" 
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er 
When it speaks low, and kneels th' oppress? r t 

throne before ! 

LXXUI. 

He hath been loved. But who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race ? — in other mould 

2 Many instances of such banquets, given and shared b> 
persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancioni 
history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua is amonest Ihi 
most memorabk 



288 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, 
And call him not forsaken ! — thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfoid 
Within its precincts ! Isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' im- 
perial dead ! 



'Tis a proud vision — that most regal pile 
Of ancient days ! The lamps are streaming bright 
From its. rich altar, down each pillared isle, 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendors, as the wavering light 
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the veined marbles, which array their height. 
And from yon dome, the loadstar of all eyes,* 
Pour such an iris glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's 

own hues 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie — * 
Though tints of sun-born glory may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic — pass thou by 
The stately tombs where Eastern Caesars lie 
Beneath their trophies ; pause not here — for 

know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom than the world can show 
In nature or in art — above, around, below. 

LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar stone ; 
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze ; 
Those heads unhelmed, those kneeling forms 

alone. 
Thus bqwed, look glorious here. The light is 

thrown 
Full frcm the shrine on one, a nation's lord, 
A sufierer ! but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is poured. 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re- 
stored ! 



The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part. 
Once — and but once — to meet on earth again ! 



1 For a minute description of the marblea, jaspers, and 
»orphyries, employed in the construction of St. Sophia see 
rke Decline and Fall, &c, vol. vii. p. 120. 



Each, in the strength of a collected heart, 

To dare what man may dare — and know ^ 

vain ! 
The rite is o'er; and thou, majestic fane ! 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! — 
Be clothed with dust I — the Christian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within these walls ; thy Cross mus*. 

bow, 
Thy kingly tombs be spoiled, the golden shrinei 

laid low ! 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star; 
The last bright lingerer in the path of mom. 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war, 
As if young Hope with twilight's ray were born 
A while the city sleeps ; her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire 
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn 
With battle sounds ; ^ the A^inds in sighs expire 
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sun 
beam's fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps ! Ay, on the combat's eve, 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the 

swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered 

well. 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon cell, 
Chained between life and death. Such rest be 

thine, 
For conflicts wait thee still ! — yet who can tell, 
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream ! — Sleep, weary Con- 

stantine ! 

LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise ? — the clouded east is red, 
As if a storm were gathering ; and I hear 

2 The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and the 
Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, whicl 
had also been commanded, on pain of death, during th< 
preceding night This circumstance is finely alluded to bj 
Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of Constantine PalaologMS i — 

" Silent shall be the march ; nor drum, nor trump, 
Nor clash of arms, shall to tl>e watchful foe 
Our near approach betray : silent aajj soft 
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, 
Slow stealing with crouched shoulders on her prey." 
Constantine Pal.eoloous, act iv. 

" The march and labor of thousands " must, however, aa 
Gibbon observes, " have inevitably proauced a strange con- 
fusion of discordant clamors, which reached the oars of tb* 
vvatclmien on the towers" 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



28b 



What seems like heavy raindrops, or the tread, 
The soft and smothered step, of those that fear 
S^irprise from ambushed foes. Hark ! yet more 

near 
Xt comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling as of winds where boughs are sere — 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far — a heavy rush, like seas that burst 

their bound ! 

LXXXL, 

ake ! wake ! They come from sea and shore 
ascending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rend- 
ing. 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array ? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey. 
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply ; 
And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway. 
And the far hills repeat their battle cry, 
■^ill that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 
sky I 

LXXXII. 

They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling 

throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong. 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! 
— Shall those high energies be vainly shown ? 
No ! from their towers th' invading tide is 

driven 
Back, like the E.ed Sea waves, when God had 

blown 
With his strong winds ! The dark-browed ranks 

are riven : ^ 
Shout, warriors of the Cross ! — for victory is 

of Heaven ! 



Stand firm ! Again the Crescent host is rushing, 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep. 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is 

gushing 
Fast e'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm ! — there yet is hope ; th' ascent is 

steep, 
<nd from on high no shaft descends in vain. 
— But those that fall swell up the mangled 

heap, 

I " After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still main- 
*ined and preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The 

tenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune 

•f the day. 

37 



In the red moat, the dying and the slain, 
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount 
again ! 



O, the dread mingling, in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! — the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the showe? 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown 
The deep dull tambour's beat — man's voic< 

alone 
Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, 

and moan. 
All drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays foi 

victory ! 

y LXXXV. 

War clouds have wrapped the city ! — through 

their dun 
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze 
As of an angry storm-presaging sun, 
From the Greek fire shoots up ! ^ and lightning 

rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the 

haze. 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ! 

— Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze. 

But fearful things unknown, untold, are there — 
Workings of wrath, and death, and anguish, and 
despair ! 

LXXXVI. 

Woe, shame and woe ! — A chief, a warrior 

flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and 

pale ! 

— O God ! that Nature's passing agonies 
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, shouJd 

prevail ! 
Yes ! rend the arrow from thy shattered mail, 
And stanch the blooddrops, Genoa's fallen son ! * 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 

2 " A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Con- 
stantHiople is the union of the ancient and modem artillerw 
The bullet and the battering-ram were directed against tbt 
same wall ; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded 
the use of the liquid and inextinguishable fire." — Decliru 
and Full, &.C., vol. xii. p. 213. 

3 "The immediate loss of Constantinople maybe ascribe** 
to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John 
Justiniani, (a Genoese chief) The sight of his blood and 
exquisite pain appalled the coura^ ^ of the chief, whose armi 
and counsels were the firmest rampaii ->f the city."— X)ec/iM 
and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 229 



290 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



— But there are tortures which thou canst not 

shun : 
The spirit is their prey — thy pangs are but 

begun ! 



O, happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 

The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 

Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed, 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name ! 
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame. 
And stars drop, fading from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs — there is no change 

for them f 



Where art thou, Constantine ? — where death is 

reaping 
His sevenfold harvest ! — where the stormy light. 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping, 
Throws meteor bursts o'er battle's noonday 

night ! 
Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height, 
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, 
While cimeters ring loud on shivering pan- 
oply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou, Constantine ? — Where Chris- 
tian blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where faith and valor perish in the flood. 
Whose billow*, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment ; where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the Cross lie strewed 
Thick as the vine leaves on th' autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued. 
And through the breach press on th' o'er- 
whehning multitude. 



Now is he battling 'midst a host alone. 

As the last cedar stems a while the sway 

Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown 

Its forest brethren in their green array ! 

And he hath cast hi? purple robe away, 

With its imperipl oearings, that his sword 

\n iron ransom from the chain may pay, 



And win, what haply fate may yet acbord, 
A soldier's death — the all now left aw empire i 
lord. 



Search for him now where bloodiest Iw the filea 
Which once were men, the faithful and the 

brave ! 
Search for him now where loftiest ris^ the piles 
Of shattered helms and shields which could not 

save, 
And crests and banners nevermore to tvave 
In the free winds of heaven ! He is „/i those 
O'er whom the host may rush, th<; tempe^x 

rave. 
And the steeds trample, and the spea>jnen close, 
Yet wake them not ! — so deep theii long and 

last repose ! 

xcn. 

Woe to the vanquished ! — thus it hath b^en still 
Since Time's first march ! Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! The lot is cast. 
Slaves ! 'twas your choice thus, rather thus, to 

die. 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 

fast, 
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to 
the last ! 



O, well doth freedom battle ! Men have made, 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand. 
And on the floors, where once their children 

played. 
And by the hearths, round which their house 

hold band 
At evening met ; ay, struggling hand to hani, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep. 
There have they taught the spoilers of the lanj 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, 
To guard free homes ! But ye ! — kneel, trem- 
blers ! kneel, and weep ! 

xciv. 
'Tis eve — the storm hath died, the valiant resi 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work ii 

done. 
And bloodstained seas and burning powers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 



THE LAST COXSTAXTIXE. 



Li 



Ufon the captive city. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal somids, that A\ildly tell 
The Soldan comes within the Caesar's halls to 
dwell ! 



Yeg ! vrith the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
He comes : the Moslem treads those ancient 

halls! 
But all is stillness there, as death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appalls 
The conqueror's hf art. Ay ! thus with tri- 
umph's hour, 
Still comes the boding whisper, w^hich recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er grandeur's path, i sense of some far 
mightier Power • 



" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch song,* and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web ! " — Still darkly 

hung. 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone, 
O'er his flushed spirit. Years on years have 

flown 
To prove its truth ; kings pile their domes in air, 
That the coiled snake may bask on sculptured 

stone. 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwell- 
ings there ! 

XCVII. 

But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying. 
As a crowned leader in such hours should die, 
Upon thy pyre of shivered spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy, 
And banners for thy shroud ! No tear, no 

sigh 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! reared on high. 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow : 
But where no change can reach — there, Con- 

stantine, art thou ! 

1 Mohammed II., on entering, after his victory, the palace 
of the B} zantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the 
lilence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. 
" A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human 
greatness forced itseL'' on his mind, and he repeated an ele- 
gant distich of Persian poetry : ' The spider has wove his 
Web in the im. >erial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch 
Jong on the towers of Afrasiab.'" — Decline and Fall, &c, 
tol. xiL p. 240. 



♦ XCVIII. 

•' After life's fitful fever thou sleep'st well ! " 
We may not mourn thee ! Sceptred chiefs, frora 

whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling — to a sterner doom 
Have oft been called. For them the dungeon's 

gloom, 
With its cold, starless midnight, hath been mad/ 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weighed 
Their very soul to dust, with each high powei 

decayed. 

xcix. 
Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of death ; but not like theel 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appealed the** 

blood, 
But thou didst fall unfettered, armed, and free, 
And kingly to the last ! And if it be. 
That from the viewless world, whose marvels 

none 
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth, still mayst thou hail the sun 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when freedom't 

fight is won ! 



And the hour comes, in storm ! A light u 

glancing 
Far through the forest god's Arcadian shades ! 

— 'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades. 
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, 
Round dark Cithseron and by DelpAi's steep ; 

— 'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding 

deep ! 



Arms glitter on the mountains, which of old 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain. 
And by the streams, once crimson, as they rollea 
The Persian helm and standard to the main ; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the trumpet ; and the tombs reply. 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plait, 
Far as Platsea's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crowned so proudly there the bowl of lib 
erty ! ' 

2 One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platsi 
was annually commemorated was, to crown with wine i 



i^2 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



I She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 



Bright land, with glory mantled o'er by song ! 
Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems ; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be 

themes 
To verse forever ; and of ruined shrines, 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams. 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines ! 

— When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 

their vines ? 

cm. 

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor 
fear ! 

— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er Mantinea's earth ? — doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave ? 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave ? 

And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 

By Sparta's ruins ? And shall man, a slave. 

Bowed to the dust, amid such scenes repine ? 

— If e'er a soil was marked for freedom's step, 

'tis thine ! 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains vdth battle show- 
ers. 

— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays, 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive bowers, 
In the Comneni's halls the Tartar sways ; * 
But not for long ! — the spirit of those days. 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 

Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the De- 
lian isle. 



If then 'tis given thee to arise in might, 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the 

chain. 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign. 
Through which we lift our spirits from the 

dust! 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain. 



mp called the Bowl of Libeity, which was afterwards poured ; 
hrXh in libation. 

1 The Comneni were amonpst the most distinguished of i 
Jie families who filled the Byzantine throne in the decliniii4j 
"^idrs of the Ea-stem Empire. i 



On Him whose way; 
but just. 



are dark, unsearchable - 



AXNOTATIOX ON "THE LAST OOKSTAirTUTE." 

[It may seem necessary to mention that " The Last Con 
stantine " first appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) alonj 
with " Belshazzar's Feast," tlie " Siege of Valencia," and 
some lyrical miscellanies. 

" The present publication appears to us (Dr. Morehead in 
ConstabWs Magazine, September, 1823) in every respect 
superior to any thing Mrs. Hemans has yet written ; mora 
powerful in particular passages — more interesting in the 
narrative part — as pathetic and delicate in the reflective — 
as elaborately faultless in its versification — as copious in 
imagery. Of the longer poems, 'The Last Constantine' ia 

our favorite The leading features of Con- 

stantine's character seem to be taken from the unequal, but, 
on the whole, admirable play of Constantine PalcEologus, by 
the gifted rival of our authoress, Joanna Baillie ; and the 
picture of that enduring and Christian courage which, in tha 
midst of a ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the las: 
of the Caesars, when all earthly hope and help had failed 
him, is eminently touching and poetical. The foUowmg 
stanzas appear to us particularly beautiful : — 

' Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air of battle,' etc. 

The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of 
Constantine's character is still more fully brought out, axe 
likewise excellent : — 

' It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight watch on that beleaguered wall,' etc 

These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably 
expressed, full of eloquence and melody ; and the poem con- 
tains many others equally beautiful. As we have already 
hinted, the story might have been better told — or rather, 
there is scarcely any story at all ; but the reader is borna 
down the stream of pensive reflection so gently and so easily 
that he scarcely perceives the want of it"] 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; 

OR, THE MEETIXG ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. 

[It was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the 
tj'ranny of the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of 
Austria. The field called the Grutli, at the foot of the See- 
lisberg, and near the boundaries of Uri and "Urterwalden, 
was fixed upon by three spirited yeomen, Wal er Furst, (thd 
father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner StauflTaclier, and 
Erni or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting to de 
liberate on the accomplishment of their projects. 

" Hither came Furst and Melchthal along secret paths ovei 
the heiglits, and Staufl'aclier in nis boat across the Lake of 
the Four Cantons. On the night precfrding tlie 11th of No- 
vember, 1307, tliey met here, each witli ten associates, men 
of approved worth ; and while, at this solemn hour, they 
were wrapped in the contemplation that on their success 
depended the fate of their whole posteilty, Werner, Walter \ 
and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, and in the nann 
of the .'Vlmighty, who has created man to an inalienable 
degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend 
that freed.. ni. Tlie thiriy assoriate-f heard the oath vritk 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



2'J! 



«W'e, and with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all 
..IS saints, that they were firmly bent on offering np their 
Ives for the defence of their injured liberty. They then 
talmly agreed on their future proceedings, and for the pres- 
?Tit each returned to his hamlet." — Planta's HUtory of the 
Helvetic Confedercaj. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throw- 
ng off the Austrian yoke, and " it is well attested," says the 
.ame autiior, " that not one drop of blood was shed on this 
memorable occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the 
OSS of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss 
met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed 
by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their 
.lerpetuai league.' ] 



TwAS night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild 

horn,* 
Like a wind's voice, had poured its last long tone, 
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch woods 

borne, 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone 
Ry cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest ; 
The chamois slumbered, for the chase was 

done; 
His cavern bed of moss the hunter pressed, 
And the rock eagle couched high on his cloudy 

nest. 



Did the land sleep ? The woodman's axe had 

ceased 
[ts ringing notes upon the beech and plane ; 
The grapes were gathered in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hushed by the streams ; the year was in its wane, 
The night in its mid-watch — it was a time 
E'en marked and hallowed unto slumber's reign ; 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime. 
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the 

clime. 



For there, where snows in crowning glory 

spread, 
High and unmarked by mortal footstep lay ; 
A.nd there, where torrents, 'mid the ice caves 

fed. 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away ; 
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of 

air. 
O'er chifs the very birthplace of the day — 

1 Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss 



O, who would dream that TjTanny could dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright 
works e'en there ? 



Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gu&L 

ing 
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell. 
And the glad heights, through mist and tem- 
pest rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire glance earliest fell, 
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweel 

bell 
Recalled such life as Eastern patriarchs led ; 
There peasant men their free thoughts might not 

tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread. 
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dul' 
stealthy tread. 



But in a land of happy shepherd homes. 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining, 
With their bright hearthfires, 'mivist the twi- 
light glooms, 
Erom bowery lattice through the fir woods shin- 
ing — 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with all memories loved and 

blest — 
In such a land there d',yells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast ; 
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of ita 
rest ! 



A sound went up — the wave's dark sleep wm 

broken — 
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar — 
Of rtftan's brief course a troubled moment's to- 
ken 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torchfires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heara to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight fload, 
A band of patriot men on Grut]i's verdure stood. 



They stood in arms, the wolf spear and the bo\f 
Had waged their war on things of mountain 

race ; 
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foe? 
— Strv)ng hands in harvest, daring feet in cbase, 



True hearts in fight, were gathered on that 

place 
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face ; 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, 
The hunter of the ? icks, the tiller of the soil. 



')'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flowed, and still, from sire to son, 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage lamps, expiring one by one 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. But silent on its height, 
The snow mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light, 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
might. 



So were they roused. Th' invading step had 

passed 
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door. 
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's 

blast, ^ 
Could bar Oppression from their home no more. 
Why, what had she to do where all things wore 
Wild grandeur's impress ? In the storm's free 

way, 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that winged their eagles with 

the day ? 



This might not long be borne : the tameless liills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling. 
Fraught with His name whose awful presence 

filb 
Their deep lone places, and forever telling 
That He hath made man free ! and they whose 

dwelling 
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear ; 
"uhe weight of sufferance from their hearts re- 
pelling, 
r^.ey rose — the forester — the mountaineer — 
0, what hath earth more strong than the good 
peasant spear ? 



Sacred be Grutli's field ! Their vigil keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer night, 



» Fohnwind the south-cast wind, which frtviuently lays 
»aate the coaii ry before it. 



There, while the sons of happier lands wen 

sleeping, 
Had those brave Switzers met ; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppressed, had given their deep 

thoughts w^ay, 
And braced their spirits for the patriot fighti 
W' ith lovely images of homes that lay 
Bowered 'midst the rustling pines, or by the tor* 

rent spray. 



Now had endurance reached its bounds ! They 

came 
With coiirage set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name, 
When they should gather on their hills to die, 
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom. 'Twas a scene combin- 
ing 
All glory in itself — the solemn sky. 
The stars, the waves their softened light en- 
shrining. 
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Na- 
ture shining. 



Calmly they stood, and with collected mien. 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low — 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, 
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet 

flow. 
Had tempered in their thoughtful hearts the 

glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre note soft and slow, 
E'en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself tot 

death. 



And three, that seemed as chieftains of tb« 

band. 
Were gathered in the midst on that lone show 
By Uri's lake A father of the land,' 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days, whose shadows had passed o'er 
His path among the hills, and quenched the 

dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory's loif 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams, 
For he had walked with God, beside the moun- 
tain streams. 

2 Walter Fiirst, the fatJier-in-law of TeSI 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



294 



A.n(l his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their lasit pillow silently have gone, 
A.S melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell 
[low life may task the spirit ? He was one 
vVho from its morn a freeman's work had done, 
cVnd reaped his harvest, and his vintage pressed, 
Fearless of WTong ; and now, at set of sun. 
He bowed not to liis years, for on the breast 
■^f a still chainless land he deemed it much to 
rest. 



But for such holy rest strong hands m\ist toil. 
Strong hearts endure ! By that pale elder's 

side. 
Stood one that seemed a monarch of the soil, 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride — 
Werner,' the brave and true ! If men have 

died 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, 
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried 
Within his breast, " Arise ! " came still and 

deep 
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in 
^moonlight sleep. 



It was a home to die for ! As it rose 
Through i's vine foliage, sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
A.nd laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound, 
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, 
And set his free step firmer on the ground. 
When o'er his soul its melodies went by. 
As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 



But who was he that on his hunting spear 
Leaned, with a prouder and more fiery bearing ? 
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear. 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul de- 
claring 
War against earth's oppressors. 'Midst that 

throng 
Of other mou.d he seemed, and loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along, 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song — 

J Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife 
tO rouse and unite his countrymen fur the deliverance of 
SwitzerUiid 



A memory on the mounta'is ! — one to stand, 
When the hiUs echoed with the deepening 

swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land. 
And in some rock defile, or savage dell, 
Array her peasant children to repel 
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chairs' 
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell. 
Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 
The joy of danger flowed, as torrents to the 

plains. 



There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick flashing eye ; a something born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright. 
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn J 
It well might be! — Young Erni's step had 

worn^ 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, 
And tracked the lynx above the clouds of 

morn, 
And followed where the flying chamois leaps 
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathomed glaciei 

deeps. 



He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being whose bright spirit had been fed 
'Midst the crowned heights of joy and liberty, 
And thoughts of power. He knew each pat^ 

which led 
To the rock's treasure cavus, whose crysf al shed 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. At the tone 
Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer ^ had spread 
A startled wing — for oft that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone. 

XXII. 

His step had tracked the waste, his soul had 

stirred 
The ancient solitudes — his voice had told 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven.* That tal« 

was heard 
In Hasli's dales, and where the shepherds ibid 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the light 
Of day's last footsteps bathes in burning gold 

2 Emi — Arnold Melchthal. 

3 The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle 

* The eyes of his aged father liad been put out by ttf 
orders of the Austrian iroveruor. 



iy6 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Great Righi's cliffs ; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his 

might. 

XXIII. 

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter 

passed, 
And, from "Ibe bosom of the wilderness, 
There leaped a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down — and bright and 

fast, 
Ai the clear waters, joyously and free, ( 

Burst from the desert rock, it rushed at last. 
Through the far valleys ; till the patriot three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the For- 
est Sea.^ 



They linked their hands, they pledged their 

stainless faith 
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven, 
They bound theii hearts to suffering and to death. 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven. 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew, 
And called upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea wave on, and Egypt's might 

o'erthrew. 



They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks w^hich darted 
Into the bright mid air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted, 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast hearted. 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast ot freedom's echoing 
horn ! 



1 Forest Sea — the Lake of th» Four Cantons is frequently 
io ciUed 



The ice vaults trembled, wnen that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stiUnass which around them hung 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollow rung ; 
And the flame signals through the midnight 

sprung 
From the Surennen rocks, Hke banners streaming 
To the far Seelisberg ; whence light was flung 
On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 
Shone out, a meteor heaven in its wild splendoi 

seeming. 

XXVII. 

And the winds tossed each siunmit's blazing 

crest. 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines, 
Felled where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 

nest. 
Heaped up the flames. The clouds grew fierj 

signs, 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines. 
Reddening the distance. Wine cups, crowned 

and bright. 
In Werner's dwelling flowed ; through leafless 

vines 
From Walter's hearth streamed forth the festive 

light, 
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to Heaven 

that night. 

xxvni. 

Then on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine — and its boll 
Filled the hushed air a while, with lonely 

sway ; 
For the stream's voice was chained by winter's 

spell. 
The deep wood sounds had cedsed. But rock 

and dell 
Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Pealed from the mountain churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alp» 

were free 1 



SONGS OP THE CID. 



297 



SONGS OF THE CID/ 



THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE 

A^'iTH sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his o\\ti Bivar.'' 

To Tuarch o'er fiel 1, and to watch in tent, 
From his home in good Castile he went ; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's van, 
Eor the noble Cid was a banished man ! 

Through his olive woods the morn breeze played, 
And his native streams wild music made, 
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay, 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, 
And he turned his steed for a parting look, 
For a parting look at his own fair towers, 
• - O, the exile's heai-t hath weary hours ! 

The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed. 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment staid — 
It was but a moment — the halls were lone. 
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall. 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.^ 

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye. 
As the voice of his native groves went by ; 
And he said, **My foemen their wish have 

won : 
Now the wiU of God be in all things done ! " 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, 
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear. 



1 These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, 
lut are founded upon some of the " wild and wonderful " 
traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and 
the ancient poem of the Cid- 

s Bivar, the su[)posed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle 
(bout two leagues from Burgos. 

• " Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando : 
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin canados, 
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos : 
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. 
Sospiro mio Cid." — Poem of t\o Cid. 
38 



And the fields of his glory lay distant far, 

— He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar 



THE CID'S DEATH BED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls, 
When the blue spring heaven lay still and cleai 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, 

And steps of hurrying feet, 
"Where the Zambra's * notes were wont to rjie, 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief 

On bright Valencia's shore. 
For Death was busy with her chie^ 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor king's barks were on the deep, 

With sounds and signs of war ; 
But the Cid was passing to his sleep, 

In the silent Alcazar. 

No moan was heard through the towers of atatt^ 

No weeper's aspect seen, 
But by the couch Ximena sate, 

With pale yet steadfast mien.* 

Stillness was round the leader's bed. 

Warriors stood mournful nigh, 
And banners, o'er his glorious head. 

Were drooping heavily. 

And feeble grew the conquering hand, 

And cold the valiant breast ; 
He had fought the battles of the land, 

And his hour was come to rest. 

What said the Ruler of the field ? 

— His voice is faint and Idw; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield 

Hath louder accents now. 

* The Zambra, a Moorish dan'ie. When Talencia wiu 
taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish fare lies chose tc 
remain there, and reside under his govemintnt. 

6 The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequpvtl} alluded to \n 
the romances. 



S0M>13 OF THE CID. 



* Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor mupt hear no dirge's tone ; 

Be ye of mighty heart ! 

Let the cymbal clash and the trumpet •**-»'j 
From your walls ring far and shrill ; 
A.nd fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 
Shall grant you victory still. 

" And gird my form with mail array, 

And set me on my steed ; 
So go ye forth on your funeral way, 

Ajid God shall give you speed. 

•* Go with the dead in the front of war, 
All armed with sword and helm,^ 

And march by the camp of King Bucar, 
Foi the good Castilian realm. 

" And let me slumber in the soil 

Which gave my fathers birth ; 
I have closed my day of battle toil. 

And my course is done on earth." 

— Now wave, ye glorious banners ! wave ! 

Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, 
And the arms, o'er the death bed of the brave. 

Send forth a hollow sigh. 

N'ow wave, ye banners of many a fight ! 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wind and the banners fall hushed as 
night : 

The Campeador — he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle horn on the breeze of mom, 
And swell out the trumpet's blast, 

Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, 
For the noble Cid hath passed ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 

The Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers. 
And lances gleamed up through her citron 
bowers. 



1 " Banderas antiguas, tristes 

De victorias iin tiempo amadas, 
Tremolando estan al viento 
Y lloran aunque no hablan," &;c. 
Herder's translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach 
Epanischen Romanzen bosungen) are remarkable for their 
ipirit and scrupulous fidelity. 



And the tents of the desert had girt he/ plain, 
And camels were trampling the \ine3 of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the deat> 

wind sweeps. 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, 
There were bows from sands where the ostrich 

runs, 
Fov the shrill horn of Afric had called her son« 
To the battles of the West. 

T\e midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard, 
Lik'J the roar of waters, the air had stirred ; 
The s^ars wee shining o'er tower and wave, 
And thr" canrp lay hushed as a wizard's cave ; 
But the Christians woke that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barded steed, 
Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need. 
And they fixed the pword in the cold right han^ 
Which had fought so weU fo^ his father's land. 
And the shield from his neck hung bright 

There was arming heard in Val?ncia's halls. 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 
Stars had not faded nor clouds turned red, 
When the knights had girded the noble &^sA, 
And the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands. 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle shout. 

When the first weni forth, it was midnight deep, 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep; 
When the last through the city's gates had gone, 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone. 
With a sunburst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went armed 

before, 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore ; ' 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn, 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne. 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then, 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 

2 " And while they stood there, they saw the Cid Ru) 
Diez coming up with three hundred knights ; for he had 
n<it been in the battle, and they knew his ^ee» penmrn." — 
boUTHKv's Chronicles of the Cid. 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



2»\ 



rhe helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow. 
Hit there rose not a sound of war or woe. 
Not a wh^per on the air. 

rhe halls in Valencia were still and lone, 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets 

far, 
Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar, 
— So the biurial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the stiU death march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
^ike a hon's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle shout. 

but the deep hQls pealed with a cry ere long, 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng ! 
— With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war steed in full career, 
It was Alvar Fanez came ! ' 

He that was wrapped with no funeral shroud. 
Had passed before like a threatening cloud ! 
f^nd the storm rushed down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer Queen,'' with her bands, lay 
slain ; 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Libyan kings who had joined his war ; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay. 
For the dreadful things they saw ! 

For it seemed where Minaya his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights arrayed, 



i Alvar FaSez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished 
warriors. 

* A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female war- 
riors, accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows 
wore so unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star 
»f Aj ihers. 

" Una Mora muy gallarda, 
Gran maestra en el tirar, 
Con Saetas del Aljava, 
De los arcos de Turquia 
Eetrella era nombrada. 
For la destreza que avia 
En el herir de la Xara." 



All white as the snow on Nevada's steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep 

— 'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall. 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire and a banner pale. 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail ; 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim'whiti 

horse. 
There was death in the giant warrior's course ! 
Where his banner streamed with its ghostly 

light. 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 

flight — 
For it seemed not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red, 
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased 
to slay. 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain. 

— So the Cid to his grave passed on ! 



THE CID'S RISING. 

'Twas the deep mid watch of the silent night, 

And Leon in slumber lay, 
When a sound went forth in rushing might. 
Like an army on its way ! ^ 
In the stillness of the hour 
When the dreams of sleep have power. 
And men forget the day. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it went, 

Till the slumberers woke in iread ; - 
The sound of a passing armament. 
With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal, 
But the heavy tramp of steel, 
As a host's to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it passed 
And the hollow pavement rang, 

8 See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. p. 3S& 



lOO 



GREEK SONGS. 



Aiid the towers, as with a sweeping blast, 
Kocked to the stormy clang ! 
But the march of the viewless train 
W«nt on to a royal fane. 
Where a priest his night hymn sang. 

There was knocking that shook the marble 
floor, 

And a voice at the gate, which said — 
« That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, 

Was there in his arms arrayed ; 



And that with him, from the to'^b, 
Had the Count Gonzalez come 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

'* And they came for the buried king that lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 
For he must be armed on the battle day, 
With them to deliver Spain ! " 
— Then the march went sounding on, 
And the Moors by noontide sun 
Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 



GREEK SONGS 



THE STORM OF DELPHI.* 

Far through the Delphian shades 
An Eastern trumpet rung ! 
And the startled eagle rushed on high, 
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky ; 
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades, 
To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 
All waving as a flame, 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear head 
Ofi the dim wood paths of the mountain shed. 
And a peal of Asia's war notes told 
That in arms the Persian came. 

He came with starry gems 
On his quiver and his crest ; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless Orient burning lay, 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel stems, 
As onward his thousands pressed. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way, 
And a heavy moan went by ! 
A. moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, 
V^en its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 
But a mortal murmur of dismay, 
Or a warrior's dying sigh. 

A gloom fell o'er their way ! 
'Twaa not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine boughs, as they crossed the blue 
)f the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 



1 See the nccoiint cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's 
'Jreec*. 



The air was filled with a mightier sway — 
But on the spearmen passed ! 

And hollow to their tread 

Came the echoes of the ground ; 
And banners drooped, as with dews o'erbome, 
And the wailing blast of the battle horn 
Had an altered cadence, dull and dead. 
Of strange foreboding sound. 

But they blew a louder strain, 

When the steep defiles were passed ! 
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose, 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snow^ 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

'Midst the laurels gleaming lone , 
For the sun god yet, with a lovely smile. 
O'er its graceful pillars looked a while, 
Though the stormy shade on clifl" and wood 
Grew deep round its mountain throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 
But the marble walls replied 
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean shore. 
And a savage trumpet's note pealed out» 
Till their hearts for terror died ! 

On the armor of the god 

Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, 
And corselet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abrde, 
And before its front arrayed. 



uREEK SONGS. 



3U4 



And a sudden silence fell 

Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wild bird's wing and the myrtle spray, 
And the very founts in their silvery way : 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

Eut the pause was broken soon ! 
'Twas not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, 
And the hearths Avere lone in the city's towers. 
But there burst a sound through the misty 
noon — 
That battle noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 
It rolled from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment on the mountain blast 
With a thousand stormy voices passed ; 

^nd the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 
When the thunder pealed aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flashed forth like javelins thrown ; 
like sun darts winged from the silver bow. 
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow ; 
And the bright gems flew from the crests like 
spray, 
And the banners were struck down ! 

Ind the massy oak boughs crashed 
To the fire bolts from on high, 
And the forest lent its billowy roar, 
While the glorious tempest onward bore, 
And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed. 
With the fierce rain sweeping by. 

Then rushed the Delphian men 
On the pale and scattered host. 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rushed from the dim Corycian cave ; 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 
Rolled on, with the spears they tossed. 

There were cries of wild dismay. 
There were shouts of warrior glee. 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's 

mirth. 
That shook the realm of their eagle birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, mth its temple, free ! 

And the Paean swelled ere long, 
lo Paean ! from the fane ; 
fo Paean ! for the war array 
Oa the CDwned Parnassus riven that day ! 



' — Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song 
With thy bounding streams again. 



THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.' 

Before the fiery sun — 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless ey^ 
In the free air, and on the war field won — 
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood. 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies, 
And the wide plain around, where patriot blood 
Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They called the glorious dead. 
In the strong faith which brings the viewlesi 

nigh. 
And poured rich odors o'er their battle bed, 
And bade them to their rite of Liberty. 

They called them from the shades — 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades, 
And music floats o'er meads of asphodel. 

Then fast the bright-red wine 
Flowed to thei?' names who taught the world 

to die. 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine, 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.' 

So the rejoicing earth 
Took from her vines again the blood she ga>e, 
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth 
From the free soil, thus hallowed to the br&ve. 

We have the battle fields. 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sk^. 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields , 
— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty ? 



THE VOICE OF SCIO. 

A VOICE from Scio's isle — 
A voice of song, a voice of old 
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled. 

And earth was hushed tlie while — 

1 This and the following piece appeared origisnlly hi tn» 

JVew Monthly Magftiine. 

2 For an account of this ceremony, anciently penormc'i 
in romniemoration of tlie battle of Plat<Ta see r<i~i K.rf 
jJiUiquitUd of (ir cce, v.;l. i. l). .SS^ 



502 GREEK 


SONGS. 


The souls of nations woke ! 


And brightly, through his reeds and tio-vrerfc, 


Where lies the land whose hills among 


Eurotas wandered by, 


That voice of victory hath not rang, 


When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 


Ab if a trumpet spoke ? 


Of solemn harmony. 


To sky, and sea, ard shore, 


Was it the hunters' choral strain 


Of those whose blood on Ilion's plain 


To the woodland goddess poured ? 


Swept from the rivers to the main, 


Did virgin hands in PaUas' fane 


A glorious tale it bore. 


Strike the fuU-sounding chord .'' 


Still by our sun-bright deep, 


But helms were glancing on the stream, 


With all the fame that fiery lay 


Spears ranged in close array, 


Threw round them, in its rushing way, 


And shields flung back a glorious beam 


The Mns of battle sleep. 


To the mom of a fearful day ! 


And kings their turf have crowned ' 


And the mountain echoes of the land 


And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 


Swelled through the deep-blue sky ; 


Brought garlands there : so rest the brav^, 


While to soft strains moved forth a band 


Who thus their bard have found ! 


Of men that moved to die. 


A voice from Scio's isle, 


They matched not with the trumpet's blast. 


A voice as deep hath risen again ; 


Nor bade the horn peal out ; 


As far shall peal its thriUing strain, 


And the laurel groves, as on they passed, 


Where'er ovir sun may smile ! 


Rang with no battle shout ! 


Let not its tones expire ! 


They asked no clarion's voice to fire 


Such power to waken earth and heaven, 


Their souls with an impulse high ; 


And might and vengeance, ne'er was given 


But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 


To mortal song or lyre ! 


For the sons of liberty ! 


Know ye not whence it comes ? 


And still sweet flutes their path around 


— From ruined hearths, from burning fanes, 


Sent forth ^Eolian breath ; 


From kindred blood on yon red plains. 


They needed not a sterner sound 


From desolated homes ! 


To marshal them for death ! 


'Tis with us through the night ! 


So moved they calmly to their field, 


'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky — 


Thence never to retum. 


Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash high 


Save bearing back the Spartan shield, 


O'er the mid waves of fight ! 


Or on it proudly borne ! 


THE SPARTANS' MARCH.^ 






THE URN AND SWORU. 


;." The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into 




oattle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite 
the rage of their warriors. Their charging step was made 


They .nought for treasures in the tomb. 


U the ' Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The 


Where gentler hands were wont to spreau 


v-dJorof a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a 


Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, 


Itunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed 


And sunny ringlets, for the dead.'^ 


loo proud for the spur." — Campbell, on the Elegiac Poetnj 


J C3 ' 


^ the Orteks.] 






They scattered far the greensward heap. 


IVas mom upon the Grecian hills. 


Where once those hands the bright wine poured 


Where peasants dressed the vines ; 


— What found they in the home of sleep ? — 


Sunligtit was on Cithseron's rills. 


A mouldering um, a shivered sword ! 


Arcadia's rocks and pines. 




1 Originally publishec . tlie Edinburirh Mafrazinc. 


2 Sec Porter's Gretntn Antiquit-cs. vol ii. p. 234 



MISf SILANSOtJS POEMS. :*ft« 


An turn, -which held the dust of one 


The graves wherein our mighty men 


VVho died when hearths and shrines were free ; 


Had J«st, unviolated then. 


A. sword, whose work was proudly done 




Between our mountains and the sea. 


Still green it waves ! as when the heart! 




Was sacred through the land ; 


And these are treasures ! — undismayed, 


And fearless was the banquet's mirth. 


«5till for their suffering land we trust, 


And free the minstrel's hand ; 


Wherein the past its fame hath laid 


And guests, with sUining myrtle crowned. 


With freedom's sword and valor's dust. 


Sent the wreathed lyre and wine cup 




round. 


THE MYRTLE BOUGH. 


Still green ! as when on holy ground 




The tyrant's blood was poured : 


Still green, along our sunny shore, 


Forget ye not what garlands bound 


The flowering myrtle waves, 


The young deliverer's sword ! 


As when its fragrant boughs of yore 


Though earth may shroud Harmodius non. 


Were offered on the graves — 


We still have s^'ord and myrtle bough. 


MISCELLANB 


OUS POEMS. 


ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF 


And rose, and made their spirits fel- 


GRUTLI. 


Through all the mountain land. 


Whence art thou, flower ? From holy ground. 


Then welcome, Grutli's free-born flower ! 


Where freedom's foot hath been ! 


Even in thy pale decay 


Yet bugle blast or trumpet sound 


There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, 


Ne'er shook that solemn scene. 


Which all high thoughts obey. 


Flower of a noble field ! thy birth 




Was not where spears have crossed. 


ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB 01 


And shivered helms have strewn the earth, 


VIRGIL. 


'Midst banners won and lost. 






And was thy home, pale, withered thing, 


But where the sunny hues and showers 


Beneath the rich blue southern sky ? 


Unto thy cup were given, 


Wert thou a nursling of the spring. 


There met high hearts at midnight hours, 


The winds and suns of glorious Italy ? 


Pure hands ^"j-* raised to Heaven ; 






Those S'ms in golden light e'en now 


Ani towL were pledged that man should roam 


Look o'er the poet's lovely grave : 


Through every Alpine dell 


Those winds are breathing soft, but thou. 


Free as the wind, the torrent's foam, 


Answering their whisper, there no more shaL 


The shaft of WiUiam TeU. 


wave. 


|Vnd prayer, the full deep flow of prayer. 


The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow 


Hallowed the pastoral ^od ; 


May cluster in their purple bloom, 


And souls grew strong for battle there, 


But on th' o'ershadowing ilex bough, 


. Nerved with the peace of God. 


Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's toml 


Before the Alps and stars they knelt, 


Thy place is void ; 0, none on earth. 


That calm devotee band, 


This crowded earth, may so remaiu 



304 xVnSCELLAXEOUS POEMa. 


Save that wldch souls of loftiest birth 


Thou didst not seem as one to die. 


Leave when they part, their brighter home to 


W^ith all thy young renown ! 


gain. 


— Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, 




In the mid fight, when spears and crests went 


\nother leaf, ere now, hath sprung 


down ! 


On the green stem which once was thine ; 




When shall another strain be sung 


Slow be your march ! the field is won ! 


Like his whose dList hath made that spot a 


A dark and evil field ! 


shrine ? 


Lift from the ground my noble son, 




And bear him homewards on his bloody shie'd 


'IFTR CHIEFTAIN'S SON. 




Y-E3 ;^ is ours ! — the field is won, 




A dark and evil field ! 


A FRAGMENT. 


Lift from the ground my noble son. 




And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 


Rest on your battle fields, ye brave 1 




Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, 


Let him not hear your trumpets ring, . 


Your dirge be in the moaning wave — 


Swell not the battle horn ! 


We call you back no more ! 


Thoughts far too sad those notes wiU bring. 




When to the grave my glorious fl.ower is borne ! 


0, there was mourning when ye feU, 




In your own vales a deep-toned knell, 


Speak not of victory ! — in the name 


An agony, a wild farewell — 


There is too much of woe ! 


But that hath long been o'er. 


Hushed be the empty voice of Fame — 




Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 


Rest with your still and solemn fame ! 




The hills keep record of your name, 


Speak not of victory ! — from my halls 


And never can a touch of shame 


The sunny hour is gone ! 


Darken the buried brow. 


The ancient banner on my walls 




Must sink ere long; I had but him — but 


But we on changeful days are cast, 


one ! 


When bright names from their place faD 




fast; 


Within the dwelling of my sires 


And ye that with your glory passed. 


The hearths will soon be cold, 


We cannot mourn you now 


With me must die the beacon fires 




That streamed at midnight from the mountain 




hold. 






ENGLAND'S DEAD. 


And let them fade, since this must be. 




My lovely and my brave ! 


Son of the Ocean Isle ! 


Was thy bright blood poured fcrth for me ? 


Where sleep your mighty dead ? 


4j.d is there but for stately youth a grave ? 


Show me what high and stately pile 




Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 


ypeak to me once again, my boy ! 




Wilt thou not hear my call ? 


Go, stranger ! track the deep — 


Thou wcrt so full of life and joy, 


Free, free the white sail spread ! 


I had not dreamt of this — that thou couldst 


Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 


fall! 


Where r^t not England's dead 


Thy mother watches from the steep 


On Egypt's burning plains. 


For thy returning plume ; 


By the pyramid o'erswayed. 


How shall I tell her that thy sleep 


With fearful power the noonday reigns, 


Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb ? 


And the palm trees yield no shade ;- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



906 



But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done ! — 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore, 
And far by Ganges' banks at night 
Is heard the tiger's roar ; — 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone^ — 
There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent floods 
The Western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods, 
The hunter's bow is strung; — 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
WTiy should they reck whose task is done ?- 
There slumber England's dead. 

The mountain storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine boughs through the sky 
Like rose leaves on the breeze ; — 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, — 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, 
Wlien round the ship the ice fields close, 
And the northern night clouds lower ; - 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold blue desert spread ! 
ITieir course with mast gfnd flag is done, — 
Even there sleep England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles. 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their graye ? 

Go, stranger ! track the deep — 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 
S9 



THE MEETING OF THE BaRDS. 

WEITTEX FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OE MEETING OF WELSH 
BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822. 

[The Oor.seddau, or meetings of the British bards, were 
anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some con 
spicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon ; 
or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, 
" in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." Th.°, 
places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle 
of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding 
bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone oi 
assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upiju 
this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening 
of a Oorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in theii 
uni-colored robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, with- 
in the circle of federation. — See Owen's Translation of tht 
Heroic Elegies of Llywarck Hen.] 

Where met our bards of old? — the glorioTis 

throng, 
They of the mountain and the battle song ? 
They met — O, not in kingly hall or bower, 
But where wild Nature girt herself with power : 
They met where streams flashed bright from 

rocky caves ; 
They met where woods made moan o'er war- 
riors' graves. 
And where the torrent's rainbo a' spray was cast, 
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast, 
And 'midst th' eternal cliffs, whose strength defied 
The crested Roman, in his hour of priie ; 
And where the Carnedd,' on its lonely hill, 
Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech 

frowned, 
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs 
round. 

There thronged th' inspired of yore — on 

plain or height. 
In the Sim's face, beneath the eye of light. 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head, 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 
Well might their lays be lofty ! — soaring thought 
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught, 
Well might bold freedom's soul pervade tha 

strains 
Which startled eagles from their lone domain*, 
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament. 
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high 
•'Twas from the battle fields of days gone by. 



1 Camedd, a stone barrow, or cairn. 

2 Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. 
means a stone of covenant 



The wor% 



tot 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest, 
With their good swords, u^von the mountain's 

breast ; 
And from the watchtowers on the lieights of 

snow, 
Severed by cloud and storm from all below ; 
And the turf mounds,' once girt by ruddy spears, 
And the rock altars of departed years. 
— Thence deeply mingling with the torrent's 

roar, 
JThe winds a thousand wild responses bore ; 
And the green land, whose every vale and glen 
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 
On all her hills awakening to rejoice. 
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to hold, 
'Midst the stone circles hallowed thus of old ; 
Not where great Nature's majesty and might 
First broke all glorious on our infant sight ; 
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and 

brave, 
Not by the mountain llyn,^ the ocean wave, 
In these late days we meet — dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri's ^ cliffs resound with harps no more ! 

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its caverned urn. 
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers. 
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) 
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep. 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep ; 
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm 

and free. 
Land of the bard ! our spirit flies to thee ! 
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts 

belong. 
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song ! 
Nor yield our souls one patriot feeling less 
To the green memory of thy loveliness, 
Than theirs, whose harp notes pealed from every 

height, 
Tn the 8un'$ face, beneath the eye of light ! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING." 

1 COME, I come ! ye have called me long — 

[ come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 

1 The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their 
f)Hower9 from small artificial mounts of tur£ — Pennant. 
> Llyn, a lake or pool. 
» £ryri, Snowdon, 
Originally published in the J^cw Monthly Magaiine, 



Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening eart!: 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shado-vNy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnu' 

flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers. 
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have looked on the hills of the stormy Nc»rth 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
The fisher is out on the sxinny sea. 
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures freQ 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath 
been. 

I have sent through the wood paths a glowing 

sigh. 
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky ; 
From the night bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the 

chain. 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, ye children of gladness ! come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyuus 

lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men. 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ' 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth. 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth i 
Their light stems thrill to the wildwood strain^ 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye iiiet me last 1 
There is something bright from your feature* 
passed ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POLMS. 



rhere is that come over your brow and eye 
tVTiich speaks of a world whore the flowers must 

die! 
-Ye smile ! but j'our smile hath a dimness yet ; 
O, what have you looked on since last we met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
Ths'te were graceful heads, with their ringlets 

bright, 
^VlikK tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint rememb; ance of dull decay ! 

There wee steps that flew o'er the cowslip's 
head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rang through the sap- 
phire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

Are they gone ? is their mirth from the moun- 
tains passed ? 

Ye have looked on death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you 

now — 
Ve have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace — 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 
They are gone from amongst you in silence 

do-WTi ! 

They are gone from amongst yDT>, the young and 

fair. 
Ye have lost the gleara cf their shining hair ! 
But I know of a land where there falls no 

blight — 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the mom may 

dweU, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne — 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the 

corn ! 
For me, I depart to a brighter shore — 
Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more ; 
I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, 

farewell ! 



[" ' The Voice of Spring,' perhaps the best known and 
sp» Vcved of aJ' Mrs. Hemans's lyrics, was written early in 



the year 1833 ; and is thus alhided to in a letter to a frien<i 
vvlio had lately siifTered a severe and sudden bereavement 
— ' " The Voice of Sprinj; " expresses some pecculiar feel- 
inj.'s of my own. Although my life has yet been nnvisiter 
by any affliction so deeply mipressive. in all iiti circunt, 
stances, as the one you have been called upon to sustain, 
yet I cannot but feel every year, with the return of thr 
violet, how much the shadows of my mind have deepened 
since its last appearance ; and to me the spring, with ail itf 
joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness rathei 
than mirth. I think the most delightful poetry I know up; t 
the subject of this season, is contained in the works cf 
Tieck, a German poet, with whom you are perhaps ac 
quainted ; but the feelings he expresses are of a very difTer- 
rent character from those I have described to you, secmiu* 
all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.' 

" This indefinable feeling of languor and depression, pro- 
duced by the influence of spring, will be well understo'jd 
by many a gentle heart. Never do the 

' Fond strange yearnings from the soul'a deep cell 
Gush for the faces we no more shall see,' 

with such uncontrollable power, as when all external naturj 
breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and 
joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of 
death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong 
than that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the 
great gulf that divides us from those who are now ' gone 
down in silence.' Some unforgotten voice is ever wh;sper 
ing — 'And I too in Arcadia!' We remember how we 
were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine • 
and these things can charm us no longer, 'because they are 
not.' The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrar}- — 
its falling leaves, and universal imager}' of decay, by bring 
ing mcye home to us the sense of our own mortalitj', iflei 
tifies us more closely with those W'ho are gone before, and 
the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. 
We are impressed with a more pervading conviction that 
' we shall go to them ; ' while, in spring, every thing seems 
mournfully to echo, ' they will not return to us ! ' 

" These peculiar associations may be traced in many of 
Mrs. Hemans's writings, deepening with the mfluence of 
years and of sorrows, and more particularly developed in 
the poem called ' Breathings of Spring.' And when it li 
remembered that it was at this season her own eartb'y 
course was finished, the following passage from a letter, 
written in the montli of May, some years after the one lasl 
quoted, cannot be read without emotion : — ' Poor A. H. is 
to be buried to-morrow. With th« bright sunshine laughing 
around, it seems more sad to think of ^ yet, if I could choose 
when I would vi'ish to die, it should be in spring — the in- 
fluence of that season is so strangely depressing to my hear! 
and frame.' " — Memoir, pp. 66-86. 

" ' The Voice of Spring,' one of the first of what may be 
called Mrs. Hemans's fanciful lyrics, which presently be- 
came as familiar as the music of some popular composer 
when brought to our doors by wandering minstrels." — 
Chorlev's Memorials, vol. i. p. 113. 

"But it is time Mrs. Hemans's poetry were alh.wed tc 
speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we havt 
really been as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in 
a lovely garden — now attracted by a rose — straightwaj 
allured by a lily — now tempted by a stately tulip — and 
again unsettled by a breathing violet, or well-attired wood- 
bine.' We do think, however, that thf. ' Voice of Spring 
is the pride of Mrs. H.'s parterre — the rose of her p->etn 
— (A. A. Watts.) — Literary Magnet, 1826 "| 



208 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ELYSIUM. 

[*♦ In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but he- 
roes and persons who had either been fortunate or distin- 
^ished on earth ; the children, and apparently the slaves 
and lower cksses — that is to say. Poverty, Misfortune, and 
Innocence — were banished to the infernal regions." — 
THMEAUBitiANn, Oinie da Christianisme.] 

Faik wert thou m the dreams 
Of eMer time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery- 
streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Whe^e, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of "parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep -3^olian sound went by 
From fountain voices in their secret glades, 
And low reed whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh. 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light 

breath. 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of 
death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that 'midst the woods made harmony, 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreajns and yearnings vain. 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From th" bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread, 
BAoved o'er the plains of waving asphodel ? 
Called from the dim proces&ion of the dead. 
Who 'midst the shadowy amaranth bowers 

' might dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise, 
*Vith the bright wine, at nations' feasts went 
round ! 



They of the lyre, whose unforgotten Lays 
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sounds 

And in all regions found 
Their echoes 'midst the mountains ! — and 

become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied -r 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and deptha> 

had sought 
The soul's far birthplace — but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreamSt 
Born 'midst the olive woods by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ! The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die. 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place 
In some sweet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths 

for these, 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees I 

The peasant at his door 
Might . sink to die when vintage feasts were 

spread. 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright 

shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
He heard the bounding steps which round him 

fell. 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of 

years. 
As embers in a bxirial urn compressed ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from tliy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whispered ♦' Liberty I 

Calm, on its leaf- strewn bier. 
Unlike a gift of Nature tc Decay, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



30S 



Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert 

thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumbcrer's 

brow ? 

Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
itix the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
fVith life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams un- 
known. 
Which in its clear eye shone 
Mke spring's first wakening ! but that light was 

past — 
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast ? 

Not where thy soft winds played. 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade w'ith thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, 

fade! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep. 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the arparanth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing 
love ! ^ 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS, 

AN ANCIENT STATUE. 

•» Debout, couronn6 de fleurs, les bras 61ev6s et poses sur 
la tete, et le dos appuye centre un pin, ce genie semble ex- 
primer par son attitude le repos des niorts. Les bas-reliefs 
des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." — 
ViscoNTi, Description des Antiques du Musce Royal. 

I'flou shouldst be looked on when the starlight 

falls 
Through the blue stillness of the summer air. 
Not by the torchfire wavering on the walls — 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou ! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

1 The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs. 
Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though 
done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As 
originally written, tlie two following stanzas concluded the 
Vnce: — 

For the most loved are tliey 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice 
In regal halls 1 The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Aronnd their rteps ; till silently they die, 
\» a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 



Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 
Were crowned of old, with pale spring floweri 

like these : 
Sloop on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze 
And the pine boughs o'ershadow thee with glocii, 
Which of the grove seems breathing, not the tc v }. 

T/teij feared not death, whose calm and graoioi;» 

thought 
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee ! 
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wTOugh* 
And laid thy head against the forest tree. 
As that of one, by music's dreamy close. 
On the wood violets lulled to deep repose. 

They feared not death ! — yet who shall say his 

touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ^ 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Of tender beauty as thy features wear ? 
Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee ? Did som e 

fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest : 

— His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy. 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed ; 
And his eye veiled so softly by its fringe. 
And his lip faded to the white rose tinge ? 

O, happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made knowm its lessons from a brow like thine 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 

— Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful lieart. 

But thou, fair slumberet ! was there less of woe, 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men poured out their gladdening spirit'! 

flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy -tinj^ 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours 



And the world knows not tlien, 
Not then, nor ever, what pure tlioughte are fled! 
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, 

The long-remembered dead t 
But not with thee misht aught save glory dwell — 
Fade, fade away, tliou shore of asphodel I 



310 AlISCELLx^NEOUS TOEMS. 


Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 


And be it thus ! — Wh« slaves shall tread 


The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 


O'er freedom's ancient battle plains ? 


With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs 


Lot deserts wrap the glorious dead 


arrayed. 


When their bright Land sits weeping o'er ha 


A.rii jvely sculpture gleaming through the 


chains. 


•xiade. 






Here, where the Persian clarion rung, 


Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 


And where the Spartan sword flashed high, 


O'er its dim precincts ? — do we not intrust 


And where the psean strains were sung, 


Cut for a time its chambers with our dead, 


From year to year swelled on by liberty ; 


A.nd strew immortal seed upon the dust ? 




Why should we dwell on that which lies be- 


Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, 


neath, 


Until the bonds of Greece be riven, 


Wb*in living light hath touched the brow of 


Save of the leader's charging word, 


death ? 


Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up throv^ 




heaven ! 


THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A. 


Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 


FROM A PAINTING BT WILLIAMS. 


No vines festoon your lonely tree,* 


And there they sleep ! — the men who stood 


No harvest o'er your war field wave, 


In arms before th' exulting sun. 


Till rushing winds proclaim, The land is fret, ' 


And bathed their spears in Persian blood. 




And taught the earth how freedom might be 
won. 






THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 


They sleep ! — th' Olympic wreaths are dead. 




Th' Athenian lyres are hushed and gone ; 


FROM A PAINTING BT WILLIAMS. 


The Dorian voice of song is fled — 




Slumber, ye mighty ! slumber deeply on. 


There have been bright and glorious pageants 




here, 


They sleep — and seems not all around 


Where now gray stones and moss-grown col- 


As hallowed unto glory's tomb ? 


umns lie ; 


Silence is on the battle ground, 


There have been words which earth grew pale 


The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 


to hear, 




Breathed from the cavern's misty chambeni 


And stars are watching on their height, 


nigh : 


But dimly seen through mist and cloud ; 


There have been voices through the sunny sky» 


And still and solemn is the light 


And the pine woods, their choral hymn notes 


Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering 


sending, 


shroud. 


And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody 


* 


With incense clouds around the temple blending, 


And thou, pale Night-queen ! here thy beams 


And throno-s with laurel boughs before .he altar 


Are not as those the shepherd loves, 


bending. 


Nor look they down on shining streams, 




B J Naiads haunted in their laurel groves. 


There have been treasures of the seas and islei 




Brought to the Day-god's now forsaken throne 


Tiiou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, 


Thunders have pealed along the rock defiles. 


In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines ; 


When the far-echoing battle horn made known 


No temple gleaming from the steep, 


That foes were on their way ! The deep wind'f 


Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines: 


moan 




Hath chilled th' invader's heart with secret fear 


But o'er a dim and boundless waste. 


And from the Sibyl grottoes, wild and lone. 


Thy rays, e'en like a tomb lamp's, brood, 




"Where man's departed steps are traced 


1 A single tree appears in Mr Williams's impressiv* 


rt.:it by his dust, amidst the solitude. 


piotiiro. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



31. 



Sto/ms have gone forth, which, in their fierce 

career, 
From his bolo hand have struck the banner 

and the spear. 

The shrine hath siink ! — but thou unchanged 

art there ! 
VIount of the vci.e and vision, robed with 

dreams ! 
Ci\t!hanged — ar.d rising through the radiant air, 
VVitJd th} dark waving pin«s, and flashing 

streams, 
And all thy founts of song ! ''. heir bright course 

teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze. 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder 

days ! 

Away, vain fantasies ! — doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, 
Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy 

breast .'' 
- Lift through the free blue heavens thine ar- 
rowy crest ! 
Lpt the great rocks their solitude regain ! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their full choids : — but silent be the 

strain ! 
r^ou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eter- 
nal's reign ! * 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

When are the lessons given 

r^at shake the startled earth r "When wakes the 
foe 

While the friend sleeps ? When falls the trai- 
tor's blow ? 
When are pioud sceptres riven, 

Bigh hopes o'erthrown ? — It is when lands re- 
joice, 

W^isn cities blaze, and lift th' exulting voice, 

And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
W^n mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'Twas 

a night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

1 This, with the preceding, and sr vera! of the following 
ii»oes, first appeared in the Edinburgh Migaiinc. 



When through the regal bower 
The trumpet pealed ere yet the song was done 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crowned ; 

Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky. 

And Dorian reeds, made summer melody, 
And censers waved around ; 

And lyres were strung and bright ll«)atiom 
poured ! 

When through the streets flashed out th' aven- 
ging sword. 

Fearless and free, the sword with myrtlei 
bound ! = 

Through Rome a triumph passed. 
Rich in her Sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry, 

W^ith shout and trumpet blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 
0"er the proud march; a king in chains was 

led; 
A stately victor, cro^ATied and robed, came last.^ 

And many a IJryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, 
Stirred the warm air, and glistened round hlz 
way 
As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cyprea<» 

hung. 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead ! — the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song. 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile. 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's 

foam 
Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome, 
And fresh rose garlands decked a glittering 
throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! But strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds by no mortal made,* 

2 The sword of Harmodius. 

3 Paulus iEniilius, one of whose sons died a few day< 
before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the con 
quest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, w« 
led in chains. 

4 See the description given by Plutarch, in his life o» 



413 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMb 



Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And passed — and with another sunset's light, 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city,* with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive 
bowers, 

Clear in the golden day ; 
4oy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had filled its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
"Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place ? 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, 
A.long clear seas of melting sapphire, laving. 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! — 
F»r in the Druid isle a feast was spread, 
Midst the rock altars of the warrior dead ; ^ 

And ancient battle rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed 
Ajid lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; — 

But ere the giant fane 

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even. 

Hushed were the bards, and in the face of heaven. 
O'er that old burial plain. 

Flashed the keen Saxon dagger ! — blood was 
streaming 

Wbere late the mead cup to the sun was gleam- 
ing, 

And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in 
vain — 

Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of 
Alexandria, the night before Antony's death. 

1 Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the in- 
habitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower 
of ashe& ,^^hich overwhelmed the city descended. 

2 Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erect- 
ed to the memory of Ambrosias, an early British king ; and 
»»y others mentioned as a monumental record of tlie massacre 
»l British chiefs liere alluded to. 



For they returned no more ! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part 

And on the rushy floor. 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls 
The high wood fires were blazing in their halls 
But not for them — they slept — their feast wai 
o'er ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflowf J 
Tame down the swelling heart ! The bridal rose 

And the rich myrtle's flower. 
Have veiled the sword ! Red wines have spar 

kled fast 
From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passetl 
With fatal perfume through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song, 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summer's quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth : 
O, far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death ! 

[" ' The Festal Hour ' certainly appears to us to be on« 
of the noblest, regular, and classical odes in the English 
language — happy in the general idea, and rich in imagery 
and illustration." — Dr. Morehead ire Constable's Magaiine 
Sept. 1823.] 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MOR- 
GARTEN. 

[" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke 
Leopold of Austria, with a formidable anny. It is well at- 
tested that this prince repeatedly declared he ' would tram- 
ple the audacious rustics under his feet ; ' and tliat he had 
procured a large stock of cordflge, for the purpose of bind- 
ing their chiefs, and putting them to death. 

" The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted ita 
first rays on the shields and armor of the advancing host ; 
and this being the first army ever known to have attempted 
the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line 
with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cav- 
alry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole epace 
between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The 
fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sud- 
den sliout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among 
the crowded ranks. Tlie confederates on the mountain, 
perceiving the impression made by this attack, ru.<lied down 
in close array, and fell upon the flank of \1ig disordered 
column. With massy clubs they dashed hi pieces the armor 
of the enemy, and dealt their Wows and thrusts with long 
pikes. The narrowness of the lefile ac'mi'.ted of no evolu 
tions, and a slight frost bavins' irjun.d 'he road, the horses 
were impeded In all their modoni ; many leaped into the 
lake ; all were startled ; and at last ihe whole cohinm gave 
way, and fell suddenly bacK ot the infantry ; and these 




[j'^iF^m a, tF E o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



31 > 



last, as the nature of the countrj- did not allow them to open 
their files, were run over by the fugitives, and many of them 
trajnpled to deatli. A general rout ensued, and Duke Leo- 
pold was with much difficulty rescued by a peasant, who 
ted him to Wiir.erthur, where the historian of the times saw 
him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed." — 
^lanta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 

The wine month ' shone in its golden prime, 

And the red grapes clustering hung, 
iJut a deeuer sound, through the Switzer's clime, 
Thau thft vintage music, rung ! 

A sound through vaulted cave, 
A sound through echoing glen, 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wald and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown. 
Till the Alpp replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 

And through the forest glooms 
Flashed helmets to the day ; 
iind the winds were U ssing knightly plumes, 
Like the larch boughs in their play. 

In Hash's' wilds there was gleaming steel 

As the host of the Austrian passed ; 
And the Schreckhorn's ^ rocks with a savage peal 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righi snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazonod streamers and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong. 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they entered the rock defile, 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rang the while. 
But on the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood, 
There was stillness as of night 

When storms at distance brood. 

t Wine month, the German name for October. 

• Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 

* Schreckliorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the can- 
on of B*nie 

40 



There was stillness as of deep, dead night. 

And a pause — but not of fear, 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering migh 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood, 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood. 

The pass %ras filled with their serried power, 

All helmed and mail arrayed, 
And their steps had sounds like a thund« 
shower 
In the rustling forest shade. 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemmed in by cliiF and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down 

Their startled foes among. 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 
O, the herdsman's arm is strong ! — 
They came like lauwine * hurled 
From Alp to Alp in play, 
When the echoes shout through the snowj 
world, 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir woods crashed on the mountain side. 

And the Switzers rushed from high. 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and prirfo 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 

Like hunters of the deer, 
They stormed the narrow dell ; 
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear, 
Was the arm of William Tell.* 

There was tumult in the crowded strait. 

And a cry of wild dismay ; 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day ! 
And the Empire's banner then. 
From its place of waving free. 
Went down before the sheplierd men, 
The men of the Forest Sea. 

With their pikes and massy clubs they braK*. 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war horse dashed to the reddening lak 

From the reapers of the field ! 



4 Lauwine, the Swiss name for the avalanrh«^ 

5 William TeL's name ft particularly mentioned 
I the confederates at Morgaiten 



}J.\ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay, 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch- wood leaves 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

0, the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed 

When the Austrian turned to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen, 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale anrJ troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills 

Went back from the battle toil. 
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep-green hills, 
All burdened with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal fires 

On the soaring Alps that night. 

When children sprang to greet their sires 

From the wild Morgarten fight. 



ODE 

ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF POETUGAL, 
AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA. 

TBAXSLATED FBOM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA. 

[Ferdinand de Herrera, sumamed the Divine, was a 
Spanish poet who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is 
still considered by the Castilians as one of their classic wri- 
ters. He aimed at the introduction of a new style into 
Spanish poetrj', and his lyrics are distinguished by the sus- 
tained majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of 
expressions and images derived apparently from a fervent 
3tudy of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone 
of national pride maintained throughout, and justified in- 
deed by the nature of the subjects to which some of these 
productions are devoted. This last characteristic is blended 
with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather 
exalts than tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in 
the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him what 
Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of her 
palm trees — the chosen and favored land, whose people, 
•evered from all others by the purity and devotedness of 
Ibeir faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of 
Heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is 
powerfully expressed m nis magnificent Ode on the Battle 
of Lepanto. 

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of 
the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric compo- 
sitions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed 
ihrough the medium of the following translation.] 

" Voz de dolor, y canto de gemldo," etc. 

A VOICE of woe, a murmur of lament, 
A spirit of deep fear and mingled ixe ; 
Let such record the day, the day of wail 
For Luaitania's bitter chastening sent ! 



She who hath seen her power, her fame expire^ 
And mourns them ill the dust, discrowned and 
pale. 

And let the awful tale 
With grief and horror every realm o'ershade, 

From Afric's burning main 
To the far sea, in other hues arrayed. 
And the red limits of the Orient's reign. 
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold 
Christ's glorious banner to the winds imfold. 

Alas ! for those that in embattled power, 
And vain array of chariots and of horse, 
desert Libya ! sought thy fatal coast ! 
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source 
Of might and glory, but in earthly force, 
Making the strength of multitudes their boast, 

A flushed and crested host, 
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trod 
Their path of pride, as o'er a conquered land 
Given for the spoil ; nor raised their eyes to God : 
And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand. 
Their sole support ; — and heavily and prone 
They fell — the car, the steed, the rider, all 
o'erthrown ! 

It came, thie hour of wrath, the hour of woe, 
Which to deep solitude and tears consigned 
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and 

mirth. 
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow 
Announced the morn — it seemed as nature 

pined. 
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam's birth; 

While, startling the pale earth. 
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud 

With visitation dread. 
Their crests th' Eternal, in his anger, bowed, 
And raised barbarian nations o'er their head, 
Th' inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold. 
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncon- 
trolled, 

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword 

Of the strong infidel's ignoble hand, 

Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the 

crown 
Of thy fair knighthood ; and the insatiate hoide^ 
Not with thy life content, O ruined land ! 
Sad Lusitania ! even thy bright renown 

Defaced and trampled down ; 
And scattered, rushing as a torrent flood, 
Thy ])omp of arms and banners ; — till the sandi 
Became a lake of blood — thy noblest blood ! 
The plain a mountain of thy slaughtered btsida 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



iU 



Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed ; 
On thy devoted sons — amaze, and shame, and 
dread. 

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight, 
The warrior men, th' invincible, the famed, 
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, 
Whose spoils were empires ? — They that in 

their might 
The haughty strength, of savage nations tamed, 
And gave the spacious Orient realms of day 

To desolation's sway. 
Making the cities of imperial name 

E'en as the desert place ? 
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame ? 
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race 
In one brief hour ? Is this their valor's doom. 
On distant shores to fall, and find not e'en a 
tomb ? 

Once were they, in their splendor and their pride, 

As an imperial cedar on the brow 

Of the great Lebanon ! It rose, arrayed 

In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide 

Majestic branches, leaving far below 

All children of the forest. To its shade 

The waters tribute paid. 
Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there 
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, 
And the wild mountain creatures made their lair 
Beneath ; and nations by its canopy 



Were shadowed o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'ej 
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair. 

But all elated, on its verdant stem. 
Confiding solely in its regal height. 
It soared presumptuous, as for empire born ; 
And God for this removed its diadem, 
And cast it from its regions of delight. 
Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn, 

By the deep roots uptorn ! 
And lo ! encumbering the lone hills it lay. 
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state ; 
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, 
Who in its ample shade had found so late 
Their bower of rest; and nature's savage race 
'Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place. 

But thou, base Libya ! thou whose arid sand 
Hath been a kingdom's death bed, where one fat« 
Closed her bright life and her majestic fam*^ - 
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand 
Hath fallen the victory, be not thou elate ! 
Boast not thyself, though thine that day u 
shame. 

Unworthy of a name ! 
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance. 
Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry. 

Pierced by his searching lance. 
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony, 
And thine aff'righted streams to ocean's flood 
An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



A DBAMATIC FRAGMENT. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Sbbaatian. 
Gonzalez, his friend. 

Scene I. — The Sea Shore near Lisbon. 

Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor. 

Seh. With what young life and fragrance in 
its breath 
My native air salutes me ! From the groves 
Of citron, and the mountains of the vine, 
Ajid thy majestic tide thus foaming on 
tn power and freedom o'er its golden sands, 
Fair stream, my Tajo ! youth, with all its glo-w 



Zamor, a young Arab. 
Sylveira- 

And pride of feeling, through my soul am* Saa 
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves 
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Swec 

land, 
My own, my fathers' land, of sunny skies 
And orange bowers ! — O, is it not a dream 
That thus I tread thy soil ? Or do I wake 
From a dark dream but now ! Gonzalez, sav 
Doth it not bring the flush of early Hfe 
Back on th' awakening spirit, thus to gaze 



J16 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAi.. 



3ii the far-sweeping river, and the shades 
Which, in their undulating motion, speak 
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born, 
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands 
Of the lone desert ? Time and toil must needs 
Have changed our mien ; but this, our blessed 

land, 
Hath gained but richer beauty since we bade 
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus ? 
Thy brow is clouded. 

Go)i. To mine eye the scene 
Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness, 
A hue of desolation ; and the calm. 
The solitude and silence which pervade 
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less 
To peace than sadness ! We have proudly stood 
Even on this shore, beside th' Atlantic wave, 
When it hath looked not thus. 

Seb. Ay, now thy soul 
Is in the past ! 0, no ! it looked not thus 
When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails. 
And the winds blew for Afric. How that hour, 
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst 
Again upon my vision ! I behold 
The stately barks, the arming, the array, 
The crests, the banners of my chivalry. 
Swayed by the Seabreeze till their motion showed 
Like j oyous life ! How the proud billows foamed ! 
And the oars flashed like lightnings of the deep. 
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun, 
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide 
The valiant unto fame ! Ay, the blue heaven 
Seemed for that noble scene a canopy 
Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar 
To peals of warlike sound ! My gallant bands ! 
Where are you now ? 

Gon, Bid the wide desert tell 
Where sleep its dead ! To mightier hosts than 

them 
Hath it lent graves ere now ; and on its breast 
Is room for nations yet ! 

Seb. It cannot be 
That all have perished ! Many a noble man, 
Made captive on that war field, may have burst 
His bonis like ours. Cloud not this fl.eeting 

•hour, 
Which to my soul is as the fountain's draught 
To the parched lip of fever, with a thought 
So darkly sad ! 

Gon. O, never, never cast 
That deep remembrance from you ! When once 

more 
Your place is 'midst earth's rulers, let it dwell 
\round you, as the shadow of your throne, 
Wlierein the land may rest. My king ! this hour 



(Solemn as that which to the voyager's eye, 
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold 
A new and boundless world) may haply be 
The last in which the courage and the power 
Of truth's high voice may reach you. Whc 

may stand 
As man to man, as friend to friend, before 
Th' ancestral throne of monarchs ? Or perchance 
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance. 
Henceforth may wait us here ! But howsoe'er 
This be, the lessons now from sufierings past 
Befit all time, all change. O, by the blood, 
The free, the generous blood of Portugal, 
Shed on the sands of Afric — by the names 
Which, with their centuries of high renown, 
There died, extinct forever — let not those 
Who stood in hope and glory at our side 
Here, on this very sea beach, whence they passed 
To fall, and leave no trophy — let them not 
Be soon, be e'er forgotten ! for their fate 
Bears a deep warning in its awfulness. 
Whence power might well leam wisdom ! 

Seb. Thinkst thou, then. 
That years of sufferance and captivity. 
Such as have bowed down eagle hearts ere now. 
And made high energies their spoil, have passed 
So lightly o'er my spirit ? It is not thus ! 
The things thou wouldst recall are not of those 
To be forgotten ! But my heart hath still 
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, 
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze 
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gon- 
zalez ! 
Thou'rt one' to make thy fearless heart a shield 
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour 
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud 

helms 
Cleft, and strong breastplates shivered. Thou 

art one 
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude 
Into the captive's bosom, and beguile 
The long slow march beneath the burning noon 
With lofty patience ; but for those quick bursts, 
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast 
Her weight of care to earth, those brief deligbti 
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound 
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose 

wing 
Wanders in chainless joy ; for things like these 
Thou hast no sjinpathies ! And thou, my Zamor, 
Art wrapped in thought ! I welcome thee to this, 
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not 
A goodly heritage ? 

Zam. The land is fair ; 
But he, the archer of the wilderness 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAl.. 



Behoiaeth not the palms beneath whose shade 
His tenis are scattered, and his camels rest ; 
And therefore is he sad ! 

Seb. Thou must not pine 
With that sick yearning of th' impatient heart, 
Which makes the exile's life one fevered dream 
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away, 
And faces wearing the familiar hues 
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known 
r>o much of this, and would not see another 
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee, 
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark 
Yet, with her white sails cat 'hing sunset's glow, 
Liss within signal reach. ]f it be thus, 
Then fare thee well — farewell, thou brave, and 

true, 
And generous friend ! How often is our path 
Crossed by some being whose bright spirit sheds 
A passing gladness o'er it, but whose course 
Leads down another current, nevermore 
To blend with ours i Yet far within our souls, 
Amidst the rushing of the busy world. 
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet 
Around that image. And e'en so, kind Zamor ! 
Shalt thou be long remembered. 

Zatn. By the fame 
Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes 
Tell round the desert's watchfire, at the hour 
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars, 
I will not leave thee ! 'Twas in such an hour 
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay 
Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within 
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then, 
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole 
Soft on the sleeper ? Whose keen dart transfixed 
The monarch of the solitudes ? I woke. 
And saw thy javelin crimsoned with his blood, 
Thou, my deliverer ! and my heart e'en then 
Called thee its brother. 

Seb. For that gift of life 
With one of tenfold price, even freedom's self. 
Thou hast repaid me weU. 

Zam. Then bid me not 
Forsake thee ! Though my father's tents may 

rise 
At times upon my spirit, yet my home 
Shall be amidst thy mountains, prince ! and thou 
Shall be my chief, until I see thee robed 
With all thy power. When thou canst need no 

more 
ITiine Arab's faithful heart and vigorous arm, 
From the green regions of the setting sun 
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek 
His Orient wilds again. 

Seb. Be near me still. 



And ever, O my warrior ! I shall stand 
Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king. 
Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp 
And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place 
Then at my side. When doth a monarch ceas^ 
To need true hearts, bold hands ? Not in the 

field 
Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet 
The couch of sleep. Be our friend, wp will noi 

part. 
Gon. Be all thy friends thus faithful, for e'er 

yet 
They may be fiercely tried. 

Seb. I doubt them not. 
Even now my heart beats high to meet theix 

welcome. 
Let us away ! 

Gon. Yet hear once more, my liege. 
The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine 
Returning, finds not e'en his peasant home 
Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved 

face. 
Which made the sunlight of his lowly board, 
Is touched by sickness ; some familiar voice 
Greets him no more ; and shall not fate and time 
Have done their work, since last we parted hence, 
Upon an empire ? Ay, within those years. 
Hearts from their ancient worship have fallen oif, 
And bowed before new stars ; high names have 

sunk 
From their supremacy of place, and others 
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty 

sounds 
At which thrones tremble. O, be slow to trust 
E'en those to whom your smiles were wont to 

seem 
As light is unto flowers. Search well the depthj 
Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine 
The secret of your state. Storms pass not by 
Leaving earth's face unchanged. 
Seb. Whence didst thou learn 
The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow 
O'er a most noble nature ? 

Go7i. Life hath been 
My stern and only teacher. I have known 
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most 
In human hearts. O, yet a while tame down 
That royal spirit, till the hour be come 
When it may burst its bondage ! On thy broM 
The suns of burning climes have set their seal. 
And toil, and years, and perils have not passed 
O'er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye. 
As doth a breeze of summer. Be that change 
The mask beneath whose shelter thou mayst real 
Men's thoughts, and veil thine own. 



U8 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Seb. Am I thus chan<i;ed 
From all I was ? And yet it needs must be, 
Since e'en my soul hath caught another hue 
From its long sufferings. Did I not array 
The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry, 
And lead the mighty of the land, to pour 
Destruction on the Moslem r I return, 
And as a fearless and a trusted friend. 
Bring, from the realms of my captivity. 
An Arab of the desert ! — But the sun 
Hath sunk below th' Atlantic. Let us hence — 
Gonzalez, fear me not. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A Street in Lisbon illuminated. 
Many Citizens. 

\st Cit. In sooth our city wears a goodly mien. 
With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps 
Shining from all her marble palaces. 
Countless as heaven's fair stars. The humblest 

lattice 
Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling 

waves 
Fling back the light ! 

2rd Cit. Ay, 'tis a gallant show ; 
And one which serves, like others, to conceal 
Things v/hich must not be told. 

Sd Cit. What wouldst thou say ? 

2d Cit. That which may scarce, in perilous 
times like these, 
Be said mth safety. Hast thou looked within 
Those stately palaces ? Were they but peopled 
With the high race of warlike nobles, once 
Their princely lords, think'st thou, good friend, 

that now 
They would be glittering with this hollow pomp, 
To greet a conqueror's entrance ? 

M Cit. Thou say' St well. 
None but a land forsaken of its chiefs 
Had been so lost and won. 

Uh Cit. The lot is cast ; 
We have but to yield. Hush ! for some stran- 
gers come : 
Now, friends, beware. 

1st Cit. Did the king pass this way 
At morning, with his train ? 

2d Cit. Ay : saw you not 
The long and rich procession ? 

Sebastian enters with Gonzalez and Zamor. 

Seb. {to Gon.) This should be 
The night of some high festival. E'en thus 
My royal city to the skies sent up, 
From her illumined fanes and towers, a voice 
.'.)f gladness, weh oming our first return 



From Afric's coast. Speak thou, Qronz&len ! ask 
The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart 
Deep feelings rush, so mingling antf bo fast. 
My voice perchance might treuiblb. 

Gon. Citizen, 
What festal night is this, that j^.1 yrur streets 
Are thronged and glittering thus ? 

1st Cit. Hast thou not heard 
Of the king's entry, in triumphal j omp, 
This very morn ? 

Go7i. The king ! triumphal pomp ! — 
Thy words are dark. 

Seb. Speak yet again ; mine ears 
Ring with strange sounds. Again ! 

1st Cit. I said, the king, 
Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal, 
This morning entered with a conquerv. t's train 
Our city's royal palace ; and for this 
We hold our festival. 

Seb. (in a low voice.) Thou said'st — the king ! 
His name ? — I heard it not. 

1st Cit. Philip of Spain. 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! We slumber till aroused 
By th' earthquake's bursting shock. Hath there 

not fallen 
A sudden darkness ? All things seem to float 
Obscurely round me. Now 'tis past. The streets 
Are blazing with strange fire. Gq, quench those 

lamps ; 
They glare upon me till my very brain 
Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dare )« 

thus 
Light up your brines for him ? 

Go7i. Away, away ! 
This is no time, no scene 

Seb. PhiUp of Spain ! 
How name ye this fair land? Why, is it not 
The free, the chivalrous Portugal ? — the lanu 
By the proud ransom of heroic blood 
Won from the Moor of old ? Did that red stream 
Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current 
In the veins of noble men, that so its tide, 
Ftdl swelling at the sound of hostile steps, 
Might be a kingdom's barrier ? 

2d Cit. That high blood 
Which should have been our strength, profusely 

shed 
By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains 
Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch's guilt 
Hath brought this ruin down. 

Seb. Must this be heard, 
And borne, and unchastised ? Man, dar'st thou 

stand 
Before me face to face, and thus arraign 
Thy sovereign .'' 



SELASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



SU 



Zam. {aside to Seb.) Shall I lift the sword, my 
prince, 
Against thy foes ? 
Gon. Be still — or all is lost. 
2d Cit. I dare speak that which all men think 
and know. 
Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life, 
Ajid power, and treasure, that we owe these 
bonds. 
Zd Cit. Talk not of bonds. May our new 
monarch rule 
rhe weary land in peace ! But who art thou ? 
Whence com'st thou, haughty stranger, that 

these things. 
Known to all nations, should be new to thee ? 
Seb. (wildly.) I come from regions where the 
cities lie 
In ruins, not in chains ! 

[Exit with Gonzalez and Zamor. 
2d Cit. He wears the mien 
Of one that ha*;h commanded ; yet his looks 
And words were strangely wild. 
Is^ Cit. Marked you his fierce 
And haughty gesture, and the flash that broke 
From his dark eye, when King Sebastian's 

name 
Became our theme ? 

2d Cit. Trust me, there's more in this 
Than may be lightlj said. These are no times 
To breathe men's thoughts i' the open face of 

heaven 
And ear of multitudes. They that would speak 
Of monarchs and their deeds should keep within 
Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence ; and 

then 
We '11 commune of this stranger. 

Scene III. — The Portico of a Palace. 
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor. 

Seb, Withstand me not ! I tell thee that my 
soul. 
With all its passionate energies, is roused 
tJntc that fearful strength which must have way, 
E'en like the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation. 

Gon. But they wait 
That hour in silence. O, be calm a while — 
Thine is not come. My king 

Seb. I am no king, 
While in the very palace of my sires, 
A.y, where mine eyes first drank the glorious 

light. 
Where my soul's thrilling echoes first awoke 
'"*n the high sor.r.d of earth's immortal names, 



Th' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king 
Until I cast him thence. 

Zam. Shall not thy voice 
Be as a trumpet to th' awak'ning land ? 
Will not the bright swords flash like sunburaui 

forth. 
When the brave hear their chief? 

Gon. Peace, Zamor ! peace ! 
Child of the desert, what hast thou to dc 
AVith the calm hour of counsel ? 

Monarch, ipeniM 
A kingdom's destiny should not be the sport 
Of passion's reckless winds. There is a time 
When men, in very weariness of heart 
And careless desolation, tamed to yield 
By misery strong as death, will lay their souls 
E'en at the conqueror's feet — as nature sinks. 
After long torture, into cold, and dull, 
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an houi 
Of fierce atonement ? Ay, the slumbcrer wake& 
With gathered strength and vengeance ; and tho 

sense 
And the remembrance of his agonies 
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path 
Is Hke the path of ocean, when the heavens 
Take off" its interdict. Wait, then, the hour 
Of that high impulse. 

Seb. Is it not the sun 
Whose radiant bursting through th' embattled 

clouds 
Doth make it morn ? The hovir of which thou 

speak'st. 
Itself, with all its glory, is the work 
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid 
The sullen shades disperse. Away ! — e'en n • -y 
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true 
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this 
The mansion of mine own, mine earliest, ixiend 
Sylveira ? 

Gon. Ay, its glittering lamps too well 
Illume the stately vestibule to leave 
Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever loved 
Such pageantries. 

Seb. His dwelling thus adorned 
On such a night ! Yet will I seek him here. 
He must be faithful, and to him the first 
My tale shall be revealed. A sudden chill 
Falls on my heart ; and yet I will not Avrong 
My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been 
Linked all too closely with mine inmost soul. 
And what have I to lose ? 

Go7i. Is their blood nought 
"Who without hope will follow where thou lead'st 
E'en unto death ? 

Sr.b. Vras that ? brave man s voice ? 



i2b 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Waririjr and friend ! how long, then, hast thou 

learned 
Td hold ihy blood thus dear ? 

Gon. Of mine, mine own, 
rhink'st thou I spoke ? When all is shed for 

thee 
rhou'lt know me better. 
Seb. {3nteri7ig the palace.) For a while, fare- 
well. [Exit. 
Gon. Thus princes lead men's hearts. Come, 
follow me ; 
A nd if a home is left me still, brave Zamor ! 
•Tiere will I bid thee welcome. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — A Hall within the Palace. 
Sebastian, Sylveira. 

Sylv. "Whence art thou, stranger ? — what 

wouldst thou with me ? 
rv.ere is a fiery wildness in thy mien 
Startling and almost fearful. 

Seb. From the stern, 
And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord 
Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind 
Breathes of the tomb, and whose dark children 

make 
The bow and spear their law, men bear not back 
That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask 
The secrets of their spirits 'midst the stir 
Of courts and cities. I have looked on scenes 
Boundless, and strange, and terrible ; I have 

known 
Sufferings which are not in the shadowy scope 
Of wild imagination ; and these things 
Have stamped me with their impress. Man of 

peace, 
Thou look'st on one familiar with th' extremes 
Of grandeur and of misery. 

Sylv. Stranger, speak 
Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time 
111 suits these mysteries. I must hence : to-night 
t feast the lords of Spain. 

Seb. Is that a task 
Fo" King Sebastian's friend ? 

Sylv. Sebastian's friend ! 
That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead 
Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid 
The living for their mirth? The grave sets 

bounds 
[Jnto all human friendship. 

Seb. On the plain 
Of Alcazar, full many a stately flower, 
The pride and crown of some high house, was laid 
^ow in the dust of Afric ; but of these 
'^f'bastian was not one. 



Sylv. I am not skilled 
To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off 
The strange, dark scrutiny of thine eye frcan 

mine. 
What mean' St thou ? — Speak ! 

Seb. Sebastian died not there. 

I read no joy in that cold, doubting mien. 
Is not thy name Sylveira ? 

Sylv. Ay. 

Seb. Why, then, 
Be glad ! I tell thee that Sebastian lives ! 
Think thou on this — he lives ! Should he re 

turn — 
For he may yet return — and find the friend 
In whom he trusted with such perfect trust 
As should be Heaven's alone — mark'st thoum^j 

words ? — 
Should he then find this man, not girt and armed, 
And watching o'er the heritage of his lord. 
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith. 
Holding luxurious revels with his foes, 
How wouldst thou meet his glance ? 

Sylv. As I do thine, 
Keen though it be, and proud. 

Seb. Why, thou dost quail 
Before it ! even as if the burning eye 
Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul 
Through all its depths. 

Sylv. Away ! he died not there ! 
He should have died there, with the chivalry 
And strength and honor of his kingdom, lost 
By his impetuous rashness. 

Seb. This from thee f 
Who hath given power to falsehood, that one 

gaze • 

At its unmasked and withering mien should 

blight 
High souls at once ? I wake. And this from thee ? 
There are whose eyes discern the secret springs 
Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold 
And gems within earth's caverns, far below 
The everlasting hills : but who hath dared 
To dream that Heaven's most awful attribute 
Invested his mortality, and to boast 
That through its inmost folds his glance could 

read 
One heart, one human heart ? Why, then, to lovt 
And trust is but to lend a traitor arms 
Of keenest temper and unerring aim. 
Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, be- 
ware ! 
Sebastian lives ! 

Sylv. If it be so, and thou 
Art of his followers still, then bid him seek 
Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre 



toJiiiASTlAN OF PORTUGAL. 



t%l 



To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home, 
For none is left him h "f 

Seb. This is to live 
An age of wisdom in an nour ! The man 
Whose empire, as in scorn, o'erpassed tlie bounds 
E'en of the infinite deep ; whose Orient realms 
Lay bright beneath the morning, wliile the clouds 
Were brooding in their sunset mantle stUl, 
O'er his majestic regions of the West ; 
Tills heir of far dominion shall return, 
And, in the very city of his birth, 
Shall find no home ! Ay, I will tell him this, 
And he will answer that the tale is false, 
False as a traitor's hollow words of love ; 
And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls 
We commune now — a friend's, a monarch's gift, 
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, 
Should yield him still a welcome. 

Sylv. Fare thee w^ell ! 
I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words 
Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance 
Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain. 
I mock thy \\ iles to scorn. 

Seb. Ha ! ha < The snake 
Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning. 
Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go'st not thus. 
My heart is bursting, and I will be heard. 
What ! know'st thou not my spirit was born to 

hold 
Dominion over thine ? Thou shalt not cast 
Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand 

tliou there, 
And tremble in the presence of thy lord ! 

Sylv. This is all madness. 

Seb. Madness ! no, I say — 
'Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel, 
And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness, 
Things which come o'er her, as a sense of pain 
O' th' sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet ; 
Be still. Thou'rt used to smile and to obey ; 
Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow 

fast. 
As from the fulness of a heart o'ercharged 
With loyal love. O, never, nevermore 
Let tears or smiles be trusted ! When thy king 
Went forth on his disastrous enterprise, 
Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid, 
And he stood o'er thee with the look of one 
Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes 
Were filled with tears like thine. No : not like 

thine : 
His bosom knew no falsehood, and he deemed 
Thine clear and stainless as a warrior's shield. 
Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone 
Are brightly imaged forth. 
^1 



Sylv. What now avail 
These recollections ? 

Seb. What ! I have seen thee shrink. 
As a murderer from the eye of light, before mo 
I have earned (how dearly and how bitterly 
It matters not, but I have earned at last) 
Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone ! 
Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though ar- 
raigned 
E'en of Sebastian's friendship. Make his scorrv 
(For he will scorn thee, as a crouching slave 
By all high hearts is scorned) thy right, ihj 

charter 
Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice, 
Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee, 
Be as a sign, a token of thy claim 
To all such guerdons as are showered on traitors, 
When noble men are crushed. And fear thou not : 
'Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm 
Hurls from his mountain throne — th' ignoble 

shrub, 
Grovelling beneath, may live. 

Sylv. It is thy part 
To tremble for thy life. 

Seb. They that have looked 
Upon a heart like thine, should know too well 
The worth of life to tremble. Such thmgs make 
Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom 

fate 
Would trample should be thus. It is enough — 
Thou mayst depart. 

Sylv. And thou, if thou dost prize 
Thy safety, speed thee hence. [Exit Sylveiba. 

Seb. (alone.) And this is he 
Who was as mine own soul : whose image rose, 
Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought 
That on the sick man's weary couch ho lay. 
Pining to share my battles ! 

CHORUS, 

Ye winds that sweep 
The conquered billows of the w'estern det^», 

Or wander where the morn 
'Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is bom, 
Waft o'er bright isles and glorious worlds tYs 

fame 
Of the crowned Spaniard's name : 

Till in each glowing zone 

Its might the nations own, 
And bow to him the vassal knee 
Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to set. 

Seb. Away — away ! this is no place for him 
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now 
A word of desolation. I Exit 



133 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



THE STBGE OF YALENCIX, 



A DRAMATIC POEM.* 

' Judicio ha dado esta no vista bazanna 
Del valor que en los siglos venideroa 
Tendrin los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna, 
Hijos de tal padres hersdcrog. 

Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto 

Debe con justo titulo cantarse 

Y lo que puode dar materia al canto " — Certantsi, JVWn«iilte 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Altab Gonzalez, Oovemor of Valencia. 
Alphonso, Carlos, his Sons. 
HiBifANDEz, a Priest. 
Abd ALLAH, a Moorish Prince, Chief of 
Vie Army besieging Valencia. 



Garcias, a Spanish Knight. 

Elmina, Wife to Oomalet. 
Ximena, her Daughter. 
Theresa, an Attendant 



Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, ^e. 



Scene. — Room in a Palace of Valencia. — Xi- 
mena singing to a lute. 



•* Thou hast not been with a festal throng 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the hall of song 

A mien so dark as thine ! 

1 Advertisement by the Author. — The history of Spain re- 
cords two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism 
which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. 
The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was 
defended, in 1294, for Sancho King of Castile, during the 
rebellion of his brother Don Juan, by Guzman surnamed the 
Good. 2 The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, 
who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pesti- 
lence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of 
Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of 
Frastamara. 3 

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished 
otjth these memora'o:© sieges, it appeared to the author of the 
following aages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger 
eolor of natjcnality, might be imparted to the scenes in 
ivhieh she has feebly attempted " to describe high passions 
«nd high actions," by connecting a religious feeling with the 
patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been 
pBtoved " faithful unto death," and by surrounding her 
ideal d*z^^atis personm with recollections derived from the 
h«roic legenls of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this rea- 
son, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed 

pon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them 
* A local habitiition ard a name." 



Bee Quintana'p " Vidae de Espanolcs Celebres," p. 63. 
Si «ee Ae r-*^ac( *o 9nuthey'« " Chronicle of the Cid." 



There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
Thou hast brought from some disastrous ftold 
That brow of wrath and gloom ! " 

" And is there blood upon my shield ? 

Maiden, it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle fiel^ 
All darkened to the sea ! 

We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine ; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain, 
Deep dyed — but not with wine ! 

" The ground is wet — but not with rain 

We have been in war array, 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hi»^h b?-thed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die, 
And tl:e strioliDg meet his fate, 
Where the moimtain winds go sounding b-* 
Ixi the Konc^valles' Striit. 

♦• In the gloomy Roucesrallc*' Ci^^rall 
There are heLns ana lanc«s cleft : 
And they that moved at mom el»:te 
On a bed of heath are left ! 

There's many a fair young facp 
Which the war steed hath gone I'w , 
At many a board there is kept a plao9 
For tho^c that come no more I ' 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCi.^ 



' A-as ! for love, for woman's breast, 

If woe like this must be ! 
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest, 
And a white plume waving free ? 
With his proud quick-flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state r 
Doth he come from Avhere the swords flashed 
high 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait r " 

•*In 'he gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I s{\ »v and marked him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly bums, 
Till it rests amidst the slain ! " 

'* Thou canst not say that he lies low. 

The lovely and the brave : 
0, none could look on his joyous brow, 
And think upon the grave ! 
Dark, dark perchance the day 
Hath been mth valor's fate : 
But he is on his homeward way 
From the Roncesvalles' Strait ! " 

•* There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war horse v^ill not wake him now, 
Though it browse his greensward bed ! 
I have seen the stripUng die, 
And the strong man meet his fate 
Where* the mountain Annds go sounding by 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ! " 

Elmina enters. 
Elm. Your songs are not as those of other 
days. 
Mine own Ximena ! Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and 

woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts ? 

Xim. Mr mother, this 
la not the free air of our mountain wilds ; 
And these are not the halls wherein my voice 
First poured those gladdening strains. 

Elm. Alas ! thy heart 
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and 

heath, 
^ounfi in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent streams 



Leap brightly from the heights. Had we no'. 

been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, 
Thou shouldst have tracked ere now, with step 

as light, 
Their wildwood paths. 

Xim. I would not but have shared 
These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves. 
And will not blend with mirth. The storni 

doth hush 
All floating whispery sounds, all bird notes 

wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. And 'tia well ! 
Should not a hero's child be trained to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, ind to look 
In the fixed face of death withe Ut dismay ? 
Elm. Woe ! woe ! that aught so gentle and 80 

young 
Should thus be called to stand i' the tempest' i 

path. 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot ; but thou, my child, shouldst 

move 
As a light breeze of heaven, fhroagh summer 

bowers. 
And not o'er foaming billows. We iire fallen 
On dark and evil days ! 

Xim. Ay, days that wake 
All to their tasks ! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring ; and womanhood 
Is summoned unto conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior spirits. Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suff'ering hearts ; 
Xot amidst joy. 

Elm. Hast thou some secret woe 
That thus thou speak' st ? 

Xim. What sorrow should be mine, 
Unknown to thee ? 

Elm. Alas ! the baleful air. 
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose tints of thy cheek hath fallen 
And AATought an early withering. Thou has! 

crossed 
The paths of death, and ministered to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance ; and thy brow hat* 

caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlikp 



iU 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



What youth's bright mien should wear. My 

gentle child ! 
I look on thee in fear ! 

Xim. Thou hast no cause 
To fear for me, When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour and the heavy step 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams — 
Wlien, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chilled their fiery blood ; — it is no time 
For tb e light mien wherewith, in happier hours. 
We tiod the woodland mazes, when young 

leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. — My father 

comes — 
0, speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 

Gonzalez enters. 

Elm. My noble lord, 
Welcome from this day's toil ! It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mailed bosom from the corselet's weight, 
To rest at fall of eve ? 

Gon. There may be rest 
For the tired peasant, when the vesper bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport : but unto him 
Who keeps the watoh-place on the mountain 

height, 
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten 

realms 
— Who speaks of rest ? 

Xim. My father, shall I fill 
The wine cup for thy Hps, or bring the lute, 
Whose sounds thou lovest ? 

Gon. K there be strains of power 
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud carser unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to 

those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! — we must hear 
N"o melting music now ! 

Xim. I know all high 
Heroic ditties of the elder time. 
Sung by the mountain Christians,' in the holds 

I M< untain C bnstians, those natives of Spain who, under 



Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bea- 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strain? 
Wherein the dark serranos '^ teach the rocks 
And the pine forests deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thov 

hear 
The war song of thine ancestor, the Cid ? 

Go7i. Ay, speak of him; for in that name is 

power, 
Such as might rescue kingdoms ! Speak of 

him ! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
I' th' annals of their house on such a name. 
How should they take Dishonor by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their fathers' halls 
First lead her as a guest ? 

Elm. O, why is this ? 
How my heart sinks ! 

Gon. It must not fail thee yet, 
Daughter of heroes ! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst 

number 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright off'ering of whose blood hath 

made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise forever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel, 
O'erawed, shrank back before them ? Ay, the 

earth 
Doth call them martyrs ; but t/ieir agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay nought but dust. And earth doth call them 

martyrs ! 
Why, Heaven but claimed their blood, their lives, 

and not 
The things which grew as tendrils round theii 

hearts ; 
No, not theh children ! 

Elm. Mean'st thou ? know'st thou aught ? — 
I cannot utter it — my sons ! my sons ! 
Is it of them ? O, wouldst thou speak of them 
Gon. A mother's heart divineth but too w-s^ ! 
Elm. Speak, I adjure thee ! I can bear it alL 
Where are my children ? 

Gon. In the Moorish camp, 
Whose lines have girt the city. 

their prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains o( 
the northern |)rovinces, where they maintained their rehgioa 
and liberty, whilst the rest of their country was overrun bj 
the Moors. 
2 Serranos, mountaineers. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



32« 



Xim, But they live ? 

- All is not lost, my mother ! 

Elm. Say, they live. 

Gon. Elmina, stiU they live. 

Ehn. But captives ! They 
tVhom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds 
Where the rock eagle seemed not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom ! And my boys 
A re captives with the Moor ! — O, how was this ? 

Gon. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain halls, 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elm. 'Tis enough. 
— And when shall they be ransomed ? 

Gon. There is asked 
A ransom far too high. 

Elm. What ! have we wealth 
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters ? Take thou all for them, 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! Why, thou art one, 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's helm, 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou know'st not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart. 
Amidst its deep affections undisturbed. 
May dwell in silence. 

Xim. Father ! doubt thou not 
But we will bind ourselves to poverty. 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this. 
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father ! 
We can bear all things. 

Go7i. Can ye bear disgrace ? 

Xim. We were not born for this. 

Gon. No, thou say'st well ! 
Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child ! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns ? If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
R-Bjoicing to the light ! But he for whom 
Freedom and life may but be won with shame, 
Eath nought to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elm. Gonzalez, toho must die .'' 

Gon. {hurriedly.) They on whose lives a fear- 
ful price is set. 
But to be paid by treason ! Is't enough ? 
Jr must I yet seek words ? 

Elm That look saith more ! 
rhou anst not mean 



Gon. I do ! why dwells there not 
Power in a glance to speak it ? They must die ! 
They — must their names be told? — our sont 

must die. 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Xim. O, look up ! 
My mother, sink not thus ! Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elm. {in a low voice.) Whose knell was in t':iA 
breeze ? No, no, not theirs ! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope 
— And there is hope. I Avill not be subdued — 
I will not hear a whisper of despair ! 
For Nature is aU-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope 1 

Gon. {solemnly.) Hope but in Him 
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quivered in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds and on tht, breathless air, 
Commanding to withhold ! Eartn. has no hope ; 
It rests with Him. 

Elm. Thou canst not tell me this ! 
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gon. K there have been 
Men in whose bosoms nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whispered by faith and honor, lift thy hands ; 
And, to that Heaven which arms the brave witli 

strength. 
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be th\is found wanting ! 

Elm. Then their doom is sealed ! 
Thou wilt not save thy children .'* 

Gon. Hast thou cause. 
Wife of my youth ! to deem it lies wiihiu 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that w^ord — traitor? They iLat 

sleep 
On their proud battle fields, thy sires and mino' 
Died not for this ! 

Elm. O, cold and hard of heart ! 
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soui 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight ! Men ! men ! too much u 

yours 
Of vantage ; ye that with a sound, a breath 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted-up affections, o'er whose vo.d 



126 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Our yearning hearts must wither ! So it is, 
Dominion must be won ! Nay, leave me not — 
My heart is bursting, and I must be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ! I must be heard ! 
Give me my sons. 

Gon. That they may live to hide 
With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
On th^ir young brows, when men shall speak of 

him 
They called their father ! Was the oath whereby. 
On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself 
With an unswerving spirit to maintain 
This fre'' and Christian city for ray God 
And foi my king, a writing traced on sand ? 
That passionate tears should wash it from the 

earth. 
Or e'en the lifedrops of a bleeding heart 
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 
The last light vessel's wake ? Then nevermore 
Let man's deep vows be trusted ! — though en- 
forced 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances. 
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, 
On their good swords ! Tliink'st thou / feel no 

pangs ? 
He that hath given me sons doth know the heart 
Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more : 
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate Cross 
Still from our ancient temples must look up 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at 

its foot 
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors — men who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample ! 

Elm,. Scorn me not 
In mine extreme of misery ! Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild ; 
\ know not what I ask. And yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate — since it must fall, 
That Cross must fall at last ! There is no power. 
No hope within this city of the grave. 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more SAviflly to its mark, 
Vhan th' arrow of the desert. Even the skies 
')'erhang the desolate sii ^iidor of her domes 



With an ill omen's aspect, snaping forth, 
From the dull clouds, Avild menacing forms an« 

signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, 
But who shall cope with famine and disease 
When leagued with armed foes ? WTiere no"W 

the aid, 
Where the long-promised lances of Castilt ? 
We are forsaken in our utmost need — 
By Heaven and earth forsaken ! 

Gon. If this be, 
(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves 

to death. 
Through high conviction that their suffering land 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elm. O, I have stood 
Beside thee through the beating storms of life 
With the true heart of unrepining love — 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily. 
In the parched vineyard, or the harvest field, 
Bearing her part, sustain -with him the heat 
And burden of the day. But now the hour. 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, 
Owning that woe is mightier ! Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband ! Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home — a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gon. Urge me not. 
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been 

found 
Worthy a brave man's love ! — O, urge me no* 
To guilt, which, through the midst of bhnding 

tears. 
In its own hues thou seest not ! Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elm. All, all thy gentle race, 
The beautiful beings that around thee grew. 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom thftni 

all? 
She, too, thy daughter — doth hei sirUe .o- 

marked 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day ? 
Shadows are gathering round her : seest thou not 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty ; and the face which mada 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send. 
With every glance, deep bodings through th« 

soul. 
Telling of early fate ? 
Gon. I see a chaniio 



,rHE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



32, 



Far nobler on her brow ! She is as one, 
Wlio, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
^rom the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
rhe wine cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm. 
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost 
Ihe beam which laughed upon th' awakening 

heart. 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
[tr fuD dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose 

source 
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch, 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade ! 
The altar flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess, 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! She hath 

put on 
c'ourage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Even as a breastplate. Ay ! men look on her, 
And she goes forth serenely to her tasks. 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips — they look on her. 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, aivd bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and ui murmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elm. And seest thou not 
Li that high faith and strong coUectedness 
A fearful inspiration ? They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought 
LiYesting youth with grandeur ! From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me ; 
Ximena ! kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied, 

— His children's lives 1 

Xim. Alas ! this may not be : 
Mother I — 1 cannot. [Exit Ximena. 

Gon. My heroic child ! 

— A terrible sacrifice thou claim'st, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death ! 

Elrs It. 't thus in thine ? 
Away ! What time is given thee to resolve 
On — what I cannot utter ? Speak ! thou know'st 
Too well what I would say. 

Gon. Until — ask not ! 
The time is brief. 

Elm. Thou said'st — I heard not right 

Gon. The time is brief. 

Elm. What ! must we burst all ties 
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are 
twined ? 



And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man in his cold heartlessness hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments ? Why, the sentence*' 

wretch. 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Poured forth in slumber, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! Is it not thus ? 
We must have time to school us. 

Gon. We have but 
To bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elm. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and 

gentle words. 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert vapor, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! There la 

none. 
In all this cold and hollow world — no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path. 
But as the heir of his great name — the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 
This is man's love ! What marvel ? — you ne'er 

made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fulness of your heart's glad hear- 
ings 
His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hail 
Waved softly to your breath ! You ne'er kept 

watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weary eye ; not yours the face 
Which, early faded through fond care for him. 
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, 
Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'eff 

smoothed 
His couch, ne'er sang him to Hs rosy rest ; 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice frojx 

yours 
Had learned soft uttcr^mce ; pressed your lip tc 

his, 
When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward 

cries 
With patient, vigilant, never- wearied love ! 
Xo ! these are woman s tasks ! — in these hei 

YOUth, 



■52 i 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 



And bloom of cheel., and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmarked ! My boys ! my 

boys ! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this ? 
— Why were ye given me ? 

Gon. Is there strength in man 
Thus to endure ? That tiiou couldst read, through 

all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Vkj voice of woe doth rend ! 
Elm. Thy heart — thy heart ! Away ! it feels 

not now ! 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall Heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening ! May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! For me, my voice 
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds — my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones ; and we shall sleep, 
Though kings lead armies o'er us — we shall 

sleep, 
Wrapped in earth's covering mantle ! You the 

while 
Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls. 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never- 
more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs. 
But all, all — glorious, — conquerors, chieftains, 

kings, 
To people that cold void ! And when the 

strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the 

blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A fiery wakening, — if at last you pine 
For the glad voices and the bounding steps 
Once through your home reechoing, and the 

clasp 
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 
3f eyes that laughed with youth, and made your 

board 
A place of sunshine, — when those days are come, 
rhe.i, ill your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world — the smiling, faithless world. 
Which hath swept past you long — and bid it 

querch 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame! immortal 

fame ! 
Fame to the sick of heart ! — a gorgeous robe, 
\. crown of victory, unto him that dies 
th' burnin 5 waste, for water ! 
Gon. This Tom thee I 



Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. 
Elmina — I forgive thee \^Exit Elmina. 

Aid me. Heaven ! 
From whom alone is power ! O, thou hast set 
Duties so stern of aspect in my path, 
They almost to my startled gaze assume 
The hue of things less hallowed ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials ! Doth not He 
Who made us know the limits of our strength ! 
My wife ! my sons ! Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus ! 

yExU Gonzalez 

Scene II. — The Aisle of a Gothic Church. 
Hernandez, Garcias, a7id Others. 

Her. The rites are closed. Now, valiant men ! 

depart, 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest — 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But blessed be those who toil 
For after days ! All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors ! through the lingering 

hours 
Of the night watch. 

Gar. Ay, father ! we have need 
Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have looked 
A thousand times upon my couch of heath. 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark -red waves looked e en as thougl 

their source 
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a knightly crest 
Rolled with them to the deep. And, in the yean 
Of my long exile and captivity, 
With the fierce Arab I have watched beneati 
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm, 
At midnight in the desert ; while the wind 
Swelled with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Pressed on my weary heart. 

Her. {thoughtfully.) Thou little know'sV 
Of what is solitude ! I tell thee, those 
For whom — in earth's remotest nook, howt er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas — there beats one human heart. 
There breathes one being, unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound 
Heard o'er the din of life, are not alone ' 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



325 



Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 

For there is that on earth vdih which they hold 

A brotherhood of soul ! Ca 1 him alone, 

Who stands shut out from this ! — and let not 

those 
WTiose homes are bright with svmshine and with 

love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Qloryxg in that proud lot ! A lonely hour 
Is cn its way to each, to all ; for Death 
Kf ows no companionship. 

*yar. I have looked on Death 
In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weighed down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries, 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth. 
Omens in heaven! The summer skies put 

forth 
No clear, bright stars above us, but at times, 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor steeds — th' 

array 
Of spears and banners tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 
Her. Ay, last night I too 
Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens ; 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' the air, when, as they 

closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were 

flung 
Through the dull glare broad, cloudy banners 

forth ; 
And chariots seemed to whirl and steeds to sink, 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy ; then swift darkness 

rushed 
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. I looked. 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face. I looked again. 
And from the brooding mass of cloud leaped forth 
One mateor sword, which o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes 

give 
Unto a rocking citadel ! I beheld, 
And yet my spirit sank not. 

Gar. Neither deem 
That mine hath blei.ched. But these are sights 

and soimds 
To aw tV e fira^est. Kno w'st thou what we hear 
42 



At midnight from the walls ? Were't but the 

deep 
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal. 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impuls« 
Quickening its fiery currents. Bat our ears 
Arc pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in <^heir noon of strength cut 

down, 
And the shrill wai of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en 

the air 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sighed on its hollow breezes ! To my soul 
The torrent rush of battle, Avith its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe. 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Her. (with solemnity.) If to plunge 
In the mid waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards, and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark. 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows 
If thus to dare were valor's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! But there are 

thmgs 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage tempered with a holier fire. 
Well mayst thou say that these are fearful times ; 
Therefore be firm, be patient ! There is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls. 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy. 
When red swords meet in lightning. But oui 

task 
Is more and nobler ! We have to endvire, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a lana. 
And to defend an altar ! If we fall. 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith ! Think but Ou >hiB, 
And gird your hearts with silent foilitude, 
Sufiering, yet hoping all things. Fare ye well. 
Gar. Father, farewell. 

[Exewit Garcias and his follow^f^. 
Her. These men have earthly ties 
And bondage on their natures ! To th3 cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but hall 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 
Hath called to be th' awakener of a land 
Should have his soul's aff"ections all absorbed 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment — as a mountain-born 
And mightv stream, with all its vassal lil^a 



830 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 

To dally with the flowers. Hark ! what quick 

step 
Comos hurrying through the gloom, at this dead 

hour ? 

Elmina enters. 

£lni. Are not all hours as one to misery ? Why 
iiaouid ihe take note of time for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose ? 

Her. I know thy griefs ; 
But there are trials for the noble heart, 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elm. Think thou not 
I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form — 
Whose human form — doth seal them unto suf- 
fering ! 
Father ! I ask thine aid. 

Her. There is no aid 
For thee c r for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud, 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elm. There is no aid ! Art thou a man of 
God? 
Art thou a man of sorrow ? — for the world 
Doth call thee such : — and hast thou not been 

taught 
By God and sorrow — mighty as they are — 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Her. Is there power 
With me to save thy sons ? — implore of Heaven ! 

Elm. Doth not Heaven work its purposes by 
man? 
I tell thee thou canst save them ! Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor ? Unto him thy words 
Are e'en ts oracles 

Her. A ad therefore ? Speak ! — 
The iix^ble daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hath nought to ask unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage ? Dost thou shrink ? 

J^lm. Have pity on me, father ! I must speak 
That, from the thought of which but yesterday 
I had recoiled in scorn ! But this is past. 
0, we grow humble in our agonies, 
And to the dust, their birthplace, bow the heads 
That wore the crown of glory ! I am weak — 
My chastening is far more than I can bear. 



Her. T>ese are no times for weakness. Oi 
our hills 
The ancient cedars, in their gathered might, 
Are battling with the tempest, and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
TJnwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain ! — what wouldst thou vn*± 
thy lord ? 
Elm. Look not upon me thus ! I have uo 
power 
To tell thee. Take thy keen, disdainful eye 
Off" from my soul ! What ! am I sunk to this ? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! How my 

sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring dis- 
grace 
On their majestic line ! My sons ! my sons ! 

— Now is all else forgotten ! I had once 
A babe that in the early springtime lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last, 

When earth's young flowers were opening to 

the sun. 
Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deemed 
All sorrow light to mine ! But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder clouds ! O, I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer 
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst 

win 
The father to relent, to save his sons ! 

Her. By yielding up the city ? 

Elm. Rather say 
By meeting that which gathers close upon us, 
Perchance one day the sooner ! Is't not so ? 
Must we not yield at last ? How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease. 
And famine, and the sword ? 

Her. Ho\<^ long ? While He 
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul. 
Than in the circling heavens with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, w^ith solemn joy ! How long i 

— And who art thou that, in the littleness 

Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set boundj 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stayed, and flow no farther? But the Fowei 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs. 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assigned 
No limits unto that Avhich man's liigh strength 
Shall, througli its aid, achieve I 
Elm. O, there are times. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



33i 



When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Her. Who dies in vain 
Upon his country's war fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars ? Feeble heart ! 
I teU thee that the voice of noble blood, 
Thus poured for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of dttnth, shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and hoaven ! Ay, let the land, 
^Vhose sons through centuries of woe have striven, 
And perished by her temples, sink a while, 
Borne down in conflict ! But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic sufl'ering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hiUs, and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest ! Earth receives 
Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 
Elm. Then it must be ! And ye will make 

those lives, 
Those young bright lives, an offering — to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Her. The mantle of that day 
May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elm. What led me here ? 
Why did I turn to thee in my despair ? 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man ? 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! What knows thy 

heart ? 
Her. Woman ! how darest thou taunt me 

with my woes ? 
Thy childi-cn, too, shall perish, and I say 
It shall be well ! Why takest thou thought for 

them ? 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health 
Unprized to melt away i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyself? Why, what hath 

earth 
To pay thee back for this ? Shall they not live 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
AU love may be forgotten ? Years of thought, 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
That changed not, though to change be this 

world's law — 
Bhall they not flush thy cheek with shame, 

whose blood 
Marks e'en like branding iron ? to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness ? 
Dotn not J.11 hoot end thus r or e'en at best. 



Will they not leave thee? far from thee seek 

room 
For the o'erflo wings of their fiery souls 
On life's wide ocean ? Give the bounding steed 
Or the winged bark to youth, tl at his iree cotirs* 
!May be o'er hills and seas ; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ! 

Elm. Not so ! it is not so ! 
Thou dost but torture me ! My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Her. Others, too, have worn 
The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee 

yet ; 
I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth. 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elm. It may not be ! 
Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons ? 

Her. My son lay stretched upon his battle bier, 
And there were hands wrung o'er him which 

had caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elm. What tale is this ? 

Her. Head you no records in this mien, of 
things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water ? Lofty birth, 
War, peril, power ? Afiliction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish ! I was once a chief — 
A warrior — nor, as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father ! 

Elm. Then thy heart can feel! 
Thou- wilt have pity ! 

Her. Should I pity thee f 
Thy sons will perish gloriously — their blood 

Elm. Their blood! my children's blood! Thou 
speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a vrine cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! !My fair boys 1 
— Man ! hast thou been a father ? 

Her. Let them die ! 
Let them die 7ioic, thy children ! so thy hear*, 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimmed 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed tl e idols whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls ! Thou think'st rt 

much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are teaw 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 



S32 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 



Those whom we love, in our fond passionate 

blindness, 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts ; and theij are merciful, 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 
Ay, fear them ! fear the loved ! Had I but wept 

er my son's grave, or o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dewdrops, glittering in the sun. 
And brightening the young verdure, /might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elm. {disdainfully.') But he fell in war ! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ! 

Her. Glory ! — Peace, 
And listen ! By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I reared him to take joy 
I' th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day-king ! His quick blood 
Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up, 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his 

eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds 

— But this availeth not ! Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest ; and his plume 
Waved like a torch above the battle storm, 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had 

sunk, 
And banners were struck down. Around my 

steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seemed to stand between my soul and heaven, 

— Then came the thunderstroke ! 
Elm. 'Tis ever thus ! 

And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly Avith all deep love ! He died ? 
Her. Not so ! 

— Death ! Death ! Why, earth shovild be a 

paradise. 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died. 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 

1 had not learned the might of agony 

To bring proud natures low ! No ! he fell off — 
Why do I tell thee this ? what right hast thou 
To learn how passed the glory from my house ? 
Yet listen ! He forsook me ! He, that was 
As mine own soul, forsook me ! trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain ; 
\nd, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 



Abjured his faith, his God ! Now, talk <A 
death ! 

Elm. O, I can pity thee 

Her. There's more to hear. 
I braced the corselet o'er my heart's deep wound 
And cast my troiibled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
flight bear it up from sinking ; 

Elm. And ye met 
No more ? 

Her. Be still ! We did ! we met once more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil, 
Or think'st thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had looked upon such things ? We met onc€ 

more. 
That was an hour to leave its lightning mark 
Seared upon brain and bosom ! There had been 
Combat on Ebro's banks, and when the day 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed 

round — 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, e'en unto death, I strove 
Long with a turbaned champion ; but my swoid 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and pre- 
vailed. 
He fell — my heart exulted — and I stood 
In gloomy triumph o'er him. Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree! 
He strove to speak — but I had done the work 
Of wrath too well ; yet in his last d sep moan 
A dreadful something of familiar sound 
Came o'er my shuddering sense. The moon 

looked forth, 
And I beheld! — speak not — 'twas he — my son I 
My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance, 
And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon. I will not have thy look 
Fixed on me thus ! Away ! 

Elm. Thou hast seen this. 
Thou hast do7ie this — and yet thou liv'st ? 

Her. I live ! 
And know'st thou wherefore ? On my soul 

there fell 
A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister'l 

shade 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent iti 

tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shake off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so T shook 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



333 



Despondence from my soul, and knew myself 
Sealed by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed, 
And set apart, and fearfully marked out 
Unto a mighty task ! To rouse the soul 
Of Spain as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The Cross, her sign of victory, on the hills. 
Gathering her sons to battle ! And my voice 
MuS; be as freedom's trumpet on the -winds, 
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea waves 
Where Caipe looks on Afric ; till the land 
Have filled her cup of vengeance ! Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of heaven ! 
But death shall have a bloodier vintage feast 
Ere that day come ! 

Elm. I ask thee this no more, 
For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes ! Thy voice hath power 
Through the wide city : here I cannot rest — 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Her. And wherefore ? 

Elm. Thou, 
That loert a father, and art now — alone ! 
Canst thou ask " wherefore ? " Ask the wretch 

whose sands 
Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs 
Have but one earthly j ourney to perform. 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death, 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parched lip 
Implores a cup of water ? Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer ? I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more ! And I yniist look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish ! But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish ? "Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt ? 

Her. There ! — with the Moor ! 
Let him fill up the measure of his gu* t ! 
— 'Tis madness all ! How wouldst thou pass 

th' array 
Of armed foes ? 

Elm. O, free doth sorrow pass, 
Free and unquestioned, through a suffering 
world ! * 

Her. This must not be. Enough of woe is 
laid 
E'en now upon thy lord's heroic soul, 

1 " Frey geht das Ungliick diirch die ganze Erde." 

Schiller's Death of IVaUenstein. act iv, sc. 2. 



For man to bear unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburdened heart. Away \ 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers foi 

strength 
Up to heaven's gate. Farewell ! 

[Exit Heenandki 
Elm. Are all men thus ? 

— Why, were't not better they should fall e'ea 

now 
Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty acorn, 
Against the sufferer's pleadings ? But no, no ' 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son. 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow ? 

{After a pause.) There's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy. 
And on whose knees they sported, and whosi 

hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid. 
"When all beside pass on, 

DIRGE, {heard without.) 
Thou to thy rest art gone. 
High heart ! and what are we, 
"VSTiile o'er our heads the storm sweeps on. 
That we should mourn for thee ? 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that live, the lance and spear, 
And weU if not the chain I 

Be theirs to weep the dead, 
As they sit beneath their vines, 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines ! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Which we must yet sustain. 
And pour our blood where thi7ie hath flowe^ 
Too blest if not in vain ! 

We give thee holy rite. 

Slow knell, and chanted strain ! 

— #or those that fall to-morrow nigL^ 

May be left no funeral train. 

Again, when trumpets wake, 
We must brace our armor on ; 
But a deeper note thij sleep must break — 
Thou to thy rest art gone ! 

Happier in this than all. 
That, now thy race is run. 



^34 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



tJpon thy name no stain may fall ; 
Thy work hath well been done ! 

Elm. '* Thy work hath well been done ! " — 
so thou mayst rest ! 
— There is a solemn lesson in those words — 
But now 1 may not pause. [Exit Elmina. 

ScE2iE III. — A Street 'in the City. 
Hernandez, Gonzalez. 

Her. Would they not hear ? 

Go7i. They heard, as one that stands 
By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed 
O'er his last friend, doth hear some passer by 
Bid him be confronted ! Their hearts have died 
Within them ! We must perish not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the 

hiUs, 
And peal through heaven's great arch, but si- 
lently, 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, 
Which lit us on our toils ! Reproach me not ; 
My soul is darkened with a heavy cloud — 
Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Her. Breathe not the word. 
Save in proud scorn ! Each bitter day o'er- 



By slow endurance, is a triumph won 

For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting 

heart ! 
A few brief hours, and those that turned away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be arrayed for battle. We must watch 
For the swift impulse, and await its time, 
As the bark Avaits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance. 
When they were weary ; they had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then. 
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood 
Creep shuddering through their veins ; or they 

had caught 
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped 

fort,h 
Strange omens from its blaze. 

Gon. Alas ! the cause 
Lies deeper in theu* misery ! I have seen, 
In my night's course through this beleaguered 

city, 
Things whose remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapors from the mountains. There were 

some, 
Chat sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein 



Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut on 

all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answered with a fierce and bitter laugh. 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless 

word. 
Dropped from the light of spirit. Others lay — 

— Why should I tell thee, father ! how despaii 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto the very dust ? And yet for this. 

Fear not that I embrace my doom — O God ! 
That 'twere my doom alone ! — with less of fixed 
And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life ; 

— But what are these ? Who hath not dearei 

Hves 
Twined with his own ! I shall be lonel)'- soon — 
Childless! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone, 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

lExeu7it Gonzalez and Hernandez 

Scene IV. — A Teyit in the Moorish Camp. 
Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos. 

Abd. These are bold words : but hast thou 

looked on death. 
Fair stripling ? On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climbed some eagle's nest, and thou hast 

made 
His nest thy spoil, 'tis much ! And fear'st thou 

not 
The leader of the mighty ? 

Alph. I have been 
Reared amongst fearless men, and 'miast the 

rocks 
And the wild hills whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learned them all 
How should I fear thee. Moor ? 

Abd. So, thou hast seen 
Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild 

flowers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves ! But know'stthou 

aught 
Of those, where sword from crossing sword 

strikes fire. 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing ste«df 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



88« 



Vhat ruled the storm so iatc ? — Speak not of 

death 
rill thou hast looked on such. 

Alph. I vras not horn 
A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales ; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights ! I am of princely race ; 
A.nd if my father would have heard my suit, 
I teL thee, infidel, that long ere now 
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Ahd. Boy ! — know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearful ? Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains 

ring 
To battle horn and tecbir.' But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
'Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark me, 

boy ? — 
To take their last look of th' all-gladdening sun, 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth 
Unto the death of shame ! — Hadst thou seen 

this 

Alph. (to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with 

us — fear thou not ! 
vVe have had heroes for our sires: — this man 
Should not behold us tremble. 

Abd. There are means 
To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls. 
Sue to thy sire for life ! — or wouldst thou die 
With this thy brother ? 

Alph. Moslem ! on the hills, 
Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain peasants, as they dressed the 

vines. 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home. 
Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador ; and how his sword 
Tizona ^ cleared its way through turbaned hosts. 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor.^ ' I will not shame 
ITie blood we draw from him ! 

[A Moorish soldier enters. 

* Tecbir, the war cry of the Moors and Arabs. 

« Tizona, the firebrand. The name of the Cid's favorite 
iword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. 

8 Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken 
by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of 
the Mocrs tor a hundred and seventy years after the Cid's 
4eath. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of 
Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror ; after whose success I 
have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the 
Campeador. 



Sol. Valencia's lord 
Sends messengers, my chief. 

Abd. Conduct them hither. 

[ The soldier goes out aiid reenters with £lbii> 4 
disguised, and an attendant. 

Car. {springing forward to the attendant.) 
O, take me hence, Diego ! take me henco 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning when I wake. Here dark-brc^cc 

men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon tw 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, 
And well I know thou lov'st me, my Diego ! 

Abd. Peace, boy ! — What tidings. Christian, 
from thy lord ? 
Is he grown humbler ? — doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth ? 

Alph. {rushing forward impatiently.) Say not 
he doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here • 
If it be so, I could weep burning tears 
For very shame ! If this can be, return I 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle spoils, 
I will but ask a war horse and a sword. 
And that beside him in the mountain chase, 
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts, 
My place shall be no more ! But no ! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father ! Moor, believe it not : 
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ! — and I, too, I can die 
As a warrior's high-bom child ! 

Elm. Alas, alas ! 
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair 

boy ? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst 

cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the blight be come ? 

Alph. That voice doth sound 

Abd. Stranger, who art thou ? — this is mock- 
ery ! speak ! 

Elm. {throwing off a mantle and helmet^ %ni\ 
embracing her sons.) 
My boys ! whom I have reared through mimt 

hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoiighta 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heait. 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
;My soul hath lived for years ! 

Car. Sweet mother ! now 
Thou shalt not leave us more. 

Abd. Enough of this ! 
Woman ! what scek'st thou here ? How Ilea 

thou dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hcctn ? 



13Q 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Elm. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 

but in breasts 
That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck down ? Thou little 

know'st 
Of nature's marvels. Chief ! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior 

men, 
Ay, they that master death by field or flood, 
Would look on, ere they braved ! I have no 

thought, 
No sense of fear ! Thou'rt mighty i but a soul 
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power 
Of that one fesling poured through all its depths. 
Than monarchs with their hosts ! Am I not come 
To die with these my children ? 

Abd. Doth thy faith 
Bid thee do this, fond Christian ? Hast thou not 
The means to save them ? 

Elm. I have prayers, and tears, 
And agonies ! — and he, my God — the God 
WTiose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour 
To bow the crested head — hath made these 

things 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm called forth 
From the bruised reeds of earth ! For thee, 

perchance, 
Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon thy heart ; and thou mayst love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low. 
Humbled before thee. 

[She throws herself at his feet. 
Conqueror, I can kneel ! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves, 
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased ! 
Do this, but spare my sons ! 

Alph. {attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst 

not kneel 
Unto this infidel ! Rise, rise, my mother ! 
This sight doth shame our house ! 

Abd. Thou daring boy ! 
They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

inien 
Unto another language. 
Elm. Peace, my son ! 
Have pity on my heart ! O, pardon, chief ! 
He is of noble blood. Hear, hoar me yet ! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts of 

Heaven 
Vlay reach your soul ? He that loves aught on 

earth. 



Dares far too much, if he be merciless ! 

Is it for those, whose frail mortality 

IMust one day strive alone with God and dea+h, 

To shut their souls against th' appealing yoic4» 

Of nature, in her anguish ? Warrior, man, 

To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts, 

By thousands and ten thousands marshalled 

round. 
And your strong armor on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not ! Whcr^shall your 

high heart 
Fuid refuge then, if in the day of might 
Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet. 
And you have pitied not ? 

Abd. These are vain words. 

Elm. Have you no children ? — fear ye not to 
bring 
The lightning on their heads ? In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out. 
To greet your homeward step ? You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love — 
For is not woman's in all climes the same ? — 
That you should scorn my prayer ! O Heaven ! 

his eye 
Doth wear no mercy ! 

Abd. Then it mocks you not. 
I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms upon them ! Shall I now be stayed ? 
Know, unto me it were as light a thing, 
In this my course, to quench your children's livef , 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The young wild branches that obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elm. Are there such hearts 
Amongst thy works, O God ? 

Abd. Kneel not to me. 
Kneel to your lord ! on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bixrsts of passionate tears and words. 

Elm. (nsinff indigiumtly.) Speak not of noble 
men ! He bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alph. {xvith exultatio7i.) I knew 'twas thus I 
He could not fail ! 

Elm. There is no mercy, none, 
On this cold earth ! To strive wdth such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love ! We will go hence, 
My children ! we are summoned. Lay youi 

heads, 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round* 
Will yet have pity, and before His face 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



337 



We three will stand together ! Moslem ! now 
Let the stroke fall at once ! 

Abd. 'Tis thine own will. 
These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elm. Thou wilt not spare ! 
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word — Father — once a name of love — 
Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abd. Hath the blast 
Of sudden trumpets ne'ei at dead of night, 
When the land's watchers feared no hostile step, 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world. 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine ? 

Elm. There's meaning in thine eye, 
More than thy v;ords. 

Abd. {pointing to the city.) Look to yon tow- 
ers and walls ! 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine. 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
To burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance ? 

Elm. Thou hast said too well. 
But what of this ? 

Ahd. Then there are those, to whom 
The Prop] et's armies not as foes would pass 
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not 
In some sijtill hour, when weariness takes rest, 
Be won to welcome us ? Your children's steps 
May yet bound lightly through their father's 
halls ! 

Alph. {i7idignantly .) Thou treacherous Moor ! 

Elm. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, O Heaven ! 

Abd. Now, 'tis for thee, 
Thou Christian mother ! on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — life or death ! The price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alph. Mother ! thou tremblest ! 

Abd. Hath thy heart resolved ? 

Elm. {covering her face loith her hands.') 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul 
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abd. Come forth. We'll commune elsewhere. 

Car. {to his mother.) Wilt thou go ? 
O, let me follow thee ! 

Elm. Mine own fair child ! 
Now that thine eyes have poured once more on 

mine 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet 

voice 
Qath sent its gentle music through my soul, 
4A 



And I have felt the twining of thine arms - 
How shall I leave thee ? 

Abd. Leave him, as 'twere buL 
For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 
Alph. Thou hast no look 
For me, my mother ! 

Elm. O that I should live 
To say, I dare not look on thee ! Farewell, 
My first born, fare thee well ! 

Alph. Yet, yet beware ! 
It were a grief more heavy on my soiJ, 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my 

grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep ! 

Abd. Away ! we trifle here. The night wanoi 
fast. 
Come forth ! 

Elrri. One more embrace ! My sons, farewell . 
[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and 
her Attendant. 
Alph. Hear me yet once, my mother ! Art 
thou gone ? 
But one word more ! 

[He rushes out, followed by Carlos. 

Scene V. — The Garden of a Palace in Valencia 
XiMENA, Theresa. 

Ther. Stay yet a while. A purer air doth ror* 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the 

limes, 
And shaking sweetness from the orangs boughs, 
Than waits you in the city. 

Xim. There are those 
In their last need, and on their bed of death> — 
At which no hand doth minister but mine, — 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence. 

Ther. You have been wont to love the music 
made 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds. 
Breathing of citron groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death .'* 

Xim. To me the voice 
Of summer, whispering through young flowers 

and leaves. 
Now speaks too deep a language ! and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies, 
The breathing soul is sadness ! I have felt 
That summons through my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth are changed, and all hei 

sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There i» 

cause 
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenei 



128 THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 


Where Death is busy, taming warrior hearts, 


She bound the steel, in battle tried, 


And pouring winter through the fiery blood. 


Her fearless heart above. 


And fettering the strong arm ! For now no sigh 


And stood with brave men side by side, 


In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven. 


In the strength and faith of love ! 


No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf, 




But of his angel's silent coming bears 


That strength prevailed — that faith was b-iesaed 


Some ioken to my soul. But nought of this 


True was the javelin thrown, 


Unto my mother ! These are awful hours ! 


Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast — 


And on their heavy steps afiiictions crowd 


She met it with her own ! 


With such dark pressure, there is left no room 




For one grief more. 


And nobly won, where heroes fell 


Ther. Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 


In arms for the holy shrine, 


Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light. 


A death which saved what she loved so well. 


There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray 


And a grave in Palestine. 


Than I have marked of late. Nay, go not yet ; 




Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 


Then let the rose of Sharon spread 


Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 


Its breast to the glowing air, 


From the transparent waters, dashing round 


And the palm of Judah lift its head. 


Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of cool- 


Green and immortal there ! 


ness. 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 


And let yon gray stone, undefaced. 


Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 


With its trophy mark the scene, 


Rest here, ere you go forth, and I wiU sing 


Telling the pilgrim of the waste 


The melody you love. 


Where love and death have been. 


Theresa sings. 


Xim. Those notes were wont to moke my 


Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 


heart beat quick. 


So far from her own bright land '' 


As at a voice of victory ; but to-day 


The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 


The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 


Were sown by no kindred hand. 


All mournful. that, ere my early grave 




Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal 


'Tis not the orange bough that sends 


Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 


Its breath on the sultry air. 


Beneath my father's banner ! In that sound 


'Tis not the myrtle stem that bends 


Were life to you, sweet brothers !— But foi 


To the breeze of evening there ! 


me 




Come on — our tasks await us. Tney who 


But the rose of Sharon's Eastern bloom 


know 


By the silent dwelling fades. 


Their hours are numbered out have little time 


And none bat strangers pass the tomb 


To give the vague and slumberous languor way, 


Which tlie palm of Judah shades. 


Which doth steal o'er them in the oreath of 




flowers. 


Hio lowly -cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 


And whisper of soft winds. 


Marks well that place of rest ; 


[Elmina enters huiriedly. 


But who hath graved on its mossy stone 


Elm. The air will calm my spirit, ere yet 1 


A sword, a helm, a crest ? 


meet 




His eye, which must be met. — Thou here, 


rhcM V19 the trophies of a chief, 


Ximena ! 


A lord of the axe and spear ! 


[She starts hack on seeing Ximexa. 


— Some blossom plucked, some faded leaf; 


Xim. Alas ! my mother ! in that hurrying 


Should grace a maiden's bier ! 


step 




And troubled glance I read 


Sc^rn not her tomb — deny not her 


Elm. {loildly.) Thou read'st it not ' 


The honors of the brave ! 


Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 


'>'er that forsaken sepulchre 


The things lay glaring, which within our heart* 


Banner and ulume miglit wave. 


We treasure up for God's ? Thou read'st it not 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



aa 



{ say, thou canst not ! There's not one on earth 
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open ! 

Xim. Mother ! what is this ? 
Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flushed, as with fever ! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Elm, Kest ! — who should rest ? — not he 
That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than life ! No ! if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls 
Such things his own, take rest ! — Dark spirits 

keep watch ; 
A.nd they to whom fair honor, chivalrous fame. 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find 

their souls 
Made marks for human scorn ! Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
Its glorious drapery ? Who shall tell us this ? 

— Will he so bear it ? 

Xim. Mother ! let us kneel 
And blend our hearts in prayer ! What else is 

left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on 

them? 

— Leave us, Theresa. — Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 
Is Heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me ? 
Elm. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstained, to 

wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. — The 

stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm. 
Reflects but clouds and lightnings ! — Didst 

thou speak 
Of peace ? 'tis fled from earth ! But there is joy ! 
Wild, troubled joy ! And who shall know, my 

child. 
It is 'lot happiness ? Why, our own hearts 
Wil keep the secret close ! Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Blow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain air ! — But hush ! the 

trees, 
The flowers, the waters, must hear nought of 

this ! 
rhev are full of voices, and will whisper 

things 

~ We'll speak of it no more. 



Xim. O pitying Heaven ! 
This grief doth shake her reason ! 

Elm. {starting.) Hark ! a step ! 
'Tis — 'tis thy father's! Come away-— rfV 

now — 
He must not see iis now ! 

Xim. Why should this be ? 

[Gonzalez enters, and detains Elm^x. 

Gon. Elmina, dost thou shun me r Ha^ » 
we not 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
W^hen youth was as a glory round our biows, 
Held on through life together ? And is this. 
When eve is gathering round us, with tV..e gloon. 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our ste][jS 
Upon the darkening wild? 

Elm. (coldly.) There needs not this. 
Why shouldst thou think I shunned thee ? 

Gon. Should the love 
That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love, 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

smiles 
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

Ebn. Speak'st thou thus ? 

— I have knelt before thee with that very 

plea. 
When it availed me not ! But there are things 
Whose very breathings from the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith. 
And vain devotedness ! Ay ! they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Go7i. This is but 
The wildness and the bitterness of grief, 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its lon^ 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power, 
Which makes all conflict vain. 

Hark ! was there ao 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena ? 

Xim. O my fathei^ 
I know that horn too well. — 'Tis but the wiu'i, 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Go7i. Alas ! this woe must be ! 
I do not shake my spirit from its height. 
So startling it with hope ! But the dread hou 
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down 
Yet for a little while — and Heaven w:ll ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart 

— And thine, Elmina ? 



34& 



THE SIEGE OF V.K..EXCIA. 



Elm. 'Tis — I am prepared. 
I have prepared for all. 

Gon. O, -well I knew 
rhou wouldst not fail me ! Not in vain my soul, 
Ipon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elm. {xcildly.) Away ! — thou know'stme not ! 
Man dares too far — his rashness would invest 
This o\ir mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One huT-an heart ! 

Goiu T}\ese are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee ! Hast thou not been found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimmed o'er every trial ? And, as our fates. 
So mu3t our names be, undivided ! — Thine, 
r th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honor. By his side 

Elm. May this be borne ! How much of agony 
Hath the heart room for ? Speak to me in wrath 

— I cao endure it ! But no gentle words ! 

No words of lore ! no praise ! Thy sword might 

slay, 
And be more merciful ! 

Gon. "Wherefore art thou thus ? 
Elmina, my beloved ! 

Elm No more of love ! 

— Have I not said there's that within my heart. 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall 
Upon an unclosed wound ? 

Gon. Nay, lift thine eyes. 
That I may read their meaning ! 

Elm. Never more 
With a free soul. What have I said ? — 'twas 

nought ! 
Take thou no heed ! The words of wretchedness 
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the 

speech 
Of troubled dreams ? 

Gon. I have seen thee in the hour 
Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung chilling round thee ; in all change, 
Bright health and drooping sickness ; hope and 

fear ; 
Youth and decline ; but never yet, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, per- 
turbed 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elm. Thy glance doth search 
A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gon. Hast thou there 
Aught to conceal ? 

Elm. Who hath not ? 

Gon. TiU this hour 
Thou never hadst ! Yet hear me ! — by the free 



And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 

Of thine heroic fathers 

Elm. This to me ! 

— Bring your inspiring war notes, and you 

sounds 
Of festal music round a djing man ! 
Will his heart echo them ? But if thy words 
Were spells, to call up, vdih each lofty tone, 
The grave's most awful spirits, they wovdd stand 
Powerless, before my anguish ! 

Gon. Then, by her, 
Who there looks on thee in the purity 
Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must 

ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonor — Speak ! 
Unfold this mystery ! By thy sons 

Elm. My sons ! 
And canst thou name them ? 

Gon. Proudly ! Better far 
They died with aU the promise of their youth, 
And the fair honor of their house upon them, 
Than that, with manhood's high and passionate 

soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, 
Barred from the lists of crested chivalry, 
And pining, in the silence of a woe. 
Which from the heart shuts daylight — o'er tha 

shame 
Of those who gave them birth ! But thou couldst 

ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims ! 

Elm. {icildly) 'Twas but for them ! 
'Twas for them only ! WTio shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime ? And he who made us knows 
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which bear down reason ! 

Gon. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust as o'er our nature threw 
A glory scarce allowed — what hast thou doE>e ? 

— Ximena, go thou hence ! 
Elm. No, no ! my child ! 

There's pity in thy look ! All other eyes 
Arc full of wrath and scorn ! O, leave me not ! 
Gon. That I should live to see thee thui 
abased ! 

— Yet speak ! What hast thou done ? 
Elm. Look to the gate ! 

Thou'rt worn with toil — but take no rest to ■ 

night ! 
The western gate ! Its watchers have bew 

won — 
The Christian city hath been bought and sold ! — 
Thev will admit the Moor ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



34i 



Gon. They have been won ! 
Brave men and tried so long ! Whose work was 
this? 

Elm. Think'st thou all hearts like thine ? Can 
mothers stand 
To see their children perish ? 

Gon. Then the guilt 
Was thine ? 

Ebn. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt ? 
tell thee, Heaven, which made all holy things, 
>Iade nought more holy than the boundless love 
Which fills a mother's heart ! I say, 'tis woe 
Enough, with such an aching tenderness. 
To love aught earthly ! and in vain ! in vain ! 
— We are pressed down too sorely ! 

Gon. (m a low desponding voice.) Now my life 
iS struck to worthless ashes ! — In my soul 
Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness 
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows ; 
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 
Almost like prophecy, is pom-ed upon me. 
To read the guilty secrete in each eye 
That once looked bright with truth ! 

Why, then, I have gained 
What men call wisdom ! — A new sense, to 

which 
All tales that speak of high fidelity, 
And holy courage, and proud honor, tried. 
Searched, and found steadfast, even to martyr- 
dom. 
Are food for mockery ! Why should I not cast 
From my thinned locks the wearing helm at 

once, 
And in the heavy sickness of my soul 
Throw the sword down forever ? Is there aught 
In all this world of gilded hollowness. 
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, 
Worth striving for again ? 

Xim. Father ! look up ! 
Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Go?i. Thy face is fair ; 
And hath been unto me, in other days. 
As morning to the journeyer of the deep ! 
But now — 'tis too like hers ! 

Elm. {falling at his feet.) Woe, shame and woe, 
Are on me in their might ! Forgive ! forgive ! 

Gon. {starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that 7 
have part or share 
Or counsel in his vHeness ? Stay me not ! 
Let go thy hold — 'tis powerless on me now : 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[Exit GONZA '.EZ. 

Ebn. Ximena, dost ihoic scorn me ? 
Xim. I have found 
In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 



Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His whom nought can blind, to dare do aughl 
But pity thee, dear mother ! 

Elm. Blessings light 
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this ! 
Thou kind and merciful ! My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife ! Is there aught else to doi 
Or suffer, ere we die ? — O God ! my sons ! 

— I have betrayed them! All their innocex^ 

blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Xim. How shall I comfort thee ? 

— 0, hark ! what sounds come deepening on -.ha 

wind. 
So full of solemn hope ! 

A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, 
bearing relics, and chanting. 

Chant. 

A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorioui 

flower. 
Death, is gone forth ; he walks the wind in power 

Where is the warrior's hand ? 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave : 
Hear us ; we perish ! — Father, hear and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 
The days of gladness, we have tailed on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea. 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish ! " — Father, hear and 
save ! 

The days of song are fled ! 
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge noves by ' 
But they that linger soon unmourned must die — 

The dead weep not the dead ! 
Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave ? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father, hear ana save 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 

Is not the strong man withered from oui eye ? 

The arm struck down that held our bannen 

high ? — 

Thine is our spirits' trust ! 

Look through the gathering shadows of th 

grave ! 
Do we not perish ? — Father, hear and save ! 

Hernandez enters. 
Elm. Why com'st, thou, man of vengeance ? - 
What have I 



342 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Ho do with thee ? Am I not bowed enough ? 
J hou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Her. Thy lord 
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart ! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways 
Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elm. Till this day's task 
Be closed ! — There is strange triumph in thine 

eyes — 
Is it that I have fallen from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame ? Biit I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance ! My spirit 

now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief ; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou raayst re- 
proach 

Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven 

doth work 
By jnany agencies ; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may 

serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires 
Pent in earth's caves. Thou hast but speeded 

that, 
Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart, 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties 
But to avert one day ! 
Elm. My senses fail. 
Thou saidst — speak yet again — I could not 

catch 
The meaning of thy words. 

Her. E'en now thy lord 
Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful 

Moor, 
And awful strength is with him Through the 

blood 
Which this day must be poured in sacrifice 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive hills 
Shall men set up the battle sign of fire, 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the 

ucnse 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale ! 
Xim. Peace, father ! peace ! 
Behold, she sinks ! — the storm hath done its 

work 
Ipon the broken'reed. O, lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. 

[They lead her away. 



Scene VI. — A Street in Valencia. Severn 
Groups of Citizens and Soldiers, many of then 
lying on the Steps of a Church. Arms scatter ea 
on the Ground around them. 

An Old Cit. The air is sultry, as with thundex 
clouds. 
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feeLi 
AVith this hot gloom o'erburdened. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, 
Will bring the old man water from the fount, 
To moisten his parched lip ? [A citizen goes out. 

2d Cit. This wasting siege, 
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you ! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house. 
Once peopled with fair sons ! 

Zd Cit. Why, better thus 
Than to be haunted with their famished cries, 
E'en in your very dreams ! 

Old Cit. Heaven's will be done ! 
These are dark times ! I have not been alone 
In my affliction. 

Zd Cit. (with bitterness.) Why, we have but 
this thought 
Left for our gloomy comfort ! — And 'tis well ! 
Ay, let the balance be a while struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut. 
Where the worn peasant sickens! They that 

bear 
The humble dead unhonored to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train 
With its exulting music ; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die, in his last need 
And agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests, with their long purjde robes, 
To the banquet sweeping by. W^hy, this is just ! 
These are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Its human mould ! 

Ath Cit. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint lago's bell ? — How sullenly 
From the great tower it pealed I 

5th Cit. Ay, and 'tis said 
No mortal hand was near when so it seemed 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Cit. Too well I know 
The sound of coming fate ! — 'Tis ever thus 
When Death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house.* O, there are thingi 
In this strange world of which we've all to learr 

1 It was a Spanish tradition tli.it the great bell of th 
cathedral of Sara<tossa always tolled spontaneously before 
King of Spain died. 



THE SIEGE OF VALE^ CIA. 



341 



tVben itrf dark bounds are passed. Yon bell, 
untouched, 

i ;Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak — 
' When of that line some sta*>ely head is marked — 
With a -wild hollow peal, at dead of night, 
Rocking Valencia's towers. I've heard it oft, 
Nor knoAv its warning false. 

itk Cit. And will our chief 
Buy with th<; price of his fair children's blood 
A. few more days of pining wretchedness 
For' this forsaken city ? 
Old Cit. Doubt it not ! 

But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land ! And yet 'tis sad 
Td think that such a race, with all its fame. 
Should pass away ! For she, his daughter too. 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose 

time 
To sojouvn there is short. 

5th Cit. Then woe for us 
When she is gone ! Her voice, the very sound 
Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved 
Through the still house of mourning! Who 

like her 
Shall give us hope again ? 

Old Cit. Be still ! — she comes, 
And with a mien how changed ! A hurrying step, 
And a flushed cheek ! What may this bode ? — 
Be stiU ! 

XrMENA enters, with Attendants, carrying a Banner. 

Xim. Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 
What do ye here ? 

A Cit. We die ! 

Xim. Brave men die now 
iirt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way! 
These days require such death ! It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times, 
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently, 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them ! Hear 
ye not ? 

A Cit. Lady ! what wouldst thou with us ? 

Xim. Rise and arm ! 
E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish ! Shall this be — 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hushed, 
r th' land to which for ages it hath been 
A battle word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd music ? Must this w^ork be done, 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble 

thought 
■^au so be thrilled no longer ? 



A Cit. 'Tis e'en so ! 
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breath«»« 

upon us ; 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Xim. Are ye so poor 
Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that whicii 

sends 
The red blood mantling through the joyous veinft. 
And gives the fleet step wings ? Why, ho"W 

have age 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause. 
Blessing that agony ? Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth — 
This dull mortality ? Nay, then look on me ! 
Death's touch hath marked me, and I stand 

amongst you, 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon be left to fill ! — I say, the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall 

scarce 
Pass from your path before me ! But even now 
I've that within me, kindling through the dust. 
Which from all time hath made high deeds ita 

voice 
And token to the nations. Look on me ! 
Why hath Heaven poured forth courage, as a 

flame 
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be 

stilled 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness. 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair. 
And your soul's torpor ? Yet, arise md arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Cit. Why, what are we, 
To cope with hosts ? Thus faint, and worn, and 

few, 
O'ernumbered and forsaken, is't foi as 
To stand against the mighty ? 

Xim. And for whom 
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a brsstl^ 
From their high places, made the fcarfulnees. 
And ever-wakeful presence of his power 
To the pale startled earth most manifest. 
But for the weak ? Was't for the helmed and 

crowned 
That suns were stayed at noonday ? — stonn;y 

seas 
As a rill parted ? — mailed archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death i 
— I tell you, if these marvels have been done. 



Ui 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Twas for the wearied and th' oppressed of men. 
They needed such ! And generous faith hath 

power, 
By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder time ! Be of good heart ! 
Who is forsaken ? He that gives the thought 
A. place within his breast ? 'Tis not for you. 
— Know ye this banner ? 

Ciii. {murmuring to each other.) Is she not in- 
spired ? 
Doth not Heaven call us by her fervent voice ? 
Xim, Know ye this banner ? 
Cits. 'Tis the Cid's. 
Xim. The Cid's ! 
Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to ? Why, the very vnnd, 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold, 
Hath a triumphant sound ! The Cid's ! it moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the land. 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 
Old Cit. Can ye still pause, my brethren ! O 

that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once 

again ! 
Xim. Ye linger still ? Upon this very air, 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain ' 
Poured forth his conquering spirit ! 'Twas the 

breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to 

wave 
This banner of his battles, as it drooped 
Above the champion's death bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,' 
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty passed ! They wrapped 

him not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's 

form 
In war array, and on his barded ^ steed. 
As for a triumph, reared him ; marching forth 
In the hushed midnight from Valencia's walls. 
Beleaguered then, as now. All silently 
The stately fuu'^ral moved. But who was he 
That followed, charging on the tall white horse. 
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale, 
Waving in sheets of snowlight ? And the cross, 
The bloody cross, far blazing from his shield. 



* " El que en buen hora nasco ; " he that was bom m 
happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid in the an- 
tient chronicles. 

a For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish le- 
•^nds, see Tke Romances, and Chronicle of the Cid. 

• Barded, caparisoned f(ir battle. 



And the fierce meteor sword ? Thev fied, tho^ 

fled! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path. The cimeter 
Was shivered as a reed ; — for in that hour 
The warrior saint that keeps the watch for Spaic 
Was armed betimes. And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner streamed all joyously. 
For still its lord was there. 

Cits, (rising tumultuous ly.) Even unto death 
Again it shall be followed ! 

Xim. Will he see 
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon light, 
Which from his house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thua 

quenched at once ? 
Will he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their utmost peril ? Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst J 
Is it a thing forgotten how he woke 
From its deep rest of old ; remembering Spain 
In her great danger ? At the night's mid watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men. 
By thousands marching through ! For he had 

risen ! 
The Campeador was on his march again, 
And in his arms, and followed by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen. He had left the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, 
And called his buried warriors from their sleep, 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain; 
For Afric was upon her. Morning broke, 
Day rushed through clouds of battle; but at eva 
Our God had triumphed, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field. 
That rocked her ancient mountains. 

Cits. Arms ! to arms ! 
On to our chief ! We have strength within us yet 
To die with our blood roused ! Now, be the 

word. 
For the Cid's house ! 

[ They begin to arm themaelvM. 
Xim,. Ye know his battle song ? 
The old, rude strain wherewith his bands weni 

forth 
To strike down Paynim swords ! [She sing» 

THE cid's battle SONG. 

The ^loor is on his way ' 
With the tambour peal and the tecbir shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out. 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Z'k, 



Shout through the vine-clad land ! 
That her sons on all tlieir hills may hear ; 
A.nd sharpen the point of the red wolf spear, 

Ar.i the sword for the brave man's hand ! 

[The Citizens Join in the song, while 
they continue arming themselves.] 

Banners are in the field ! 
Tie chief must rise from his joyous board, 
And turn fi.-om the feast ere the wine be po ored, 

And take up liis father's shield ! 

The Moor is on his way ! 
Let the peasant leave his olive ground, 
Ard the goats roam wild through the pine woods 
round : 
. There is nobler work to-day ! 

Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
rill the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage robe, and the flowery crown ; 

And arm in the banquet hall ! 

And stay the funeral train : 
Bid the chanted mass be hushed a while, 
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain. 

[ They take up the banner and folloxo Ximena 
out ; their voices are Jieard gradually dying 
away at a distance. 

Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears ! 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array ! 
His steed is barded, his plume waves high. 
His banner is up in the sunny sky — 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 

Scene VII. — The walls of the city. The plains 
beneath^ with the Moorish Camp and Army. 
G0N2.ALEZ, Garcias, Hernandez. 
A toild sound of Moorish music heard from below. 
Her. "What notes are these in their deep 
mournfulness 
60 strangely Avild ? 

Gar. 'T'S the shrill melody 
Of the Moor's ancient death song. Well I know 
The rude, barbaric sound ; but till this hour 
It seemed not fearful. Now, a sliuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. — Lo ! from yon tent 
rhey lead 'the noble boys ! 
44 



Her. The young, and pure, 
And beautiful victims ! — 'Tis on things lilc* 

these 
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry, 
Sowing the winds with hope ! Yet this is weL 
Thus brightly crowned with life's most gorgeouj 

flowers. 
And all unblemished, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto heaven ! 

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth 

Gon. (starting.) Are my soi«s there ? 
I knew they could not perish ; for yon heaven 
Would ne'er behold it ! — Where is he that saiJ 
I was no more a father ! They look changed — 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison house ! 
Or is't mine eyes see dimly r But their steps 
Seem heavy, as with pain. I hear the clank — 
O God ! their limbs are fettered ! 

Abd. (^coming forward beneath the walls.) 
Christian ! look 

Once more upon thy children. There is yet 
One moment for the trembling of the sword ; 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gon. Why should this man 
So mock us with the semblance of our kind ? 

— Moor ! Moor ! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all -judging One, 

Who visits for such things ! Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature ? 'Twill be taught thee yet ; 
And darkly shall the anguish of my seal, 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine. 
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dusi, 
And be denied ! 

Abd. Nay, is it not thyself 
That hast no mercy and no love within thee 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy hous<j 
Speak ! must they live or die ? 

Gon. (in violent emotion.) Is it Heaven's will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day 
With infinite agony ? How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head! They bloomed 

around me, 
And my heart grew too fearless in its joy, 
Glorying in their bright promise. — If we fall, 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness ? 
Hernandez, without speaking , holds up a cross 
before him. 

Abd. Speak ! 

Go7i. (snatchitig the cross, and lifting it up.) Le 
the earth be shaken through its deptbg, 
But this must triumph ! 

Abd. (^coldly.) Be it as thou wilt. 

— Unsheathe the cimeter ! [ To his guo' ai 
Gar. {to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief ! 



?46 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Iliis is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle proof as yours, 
Unmaddened may sustain. 

Gon. Be stiU ! I have now 
No place on earth but this. 

Alph. {from beneath.) Men ! give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die ! 

Gar. The princely boy ! — how gallantly his 
brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death ! 

Alph. Father! 

Cron. My son ! my son ! — Mine eldest born ! 

Alph. Stuy but upon the ramparts ! Fear thou 
not — 
There is good courage in me. O my father ! 
[ will not shame thee ! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
So shall my heart have strength. 

Gon. Would, would to God 
That I might die for thee, my noble boy I 
Alphonso, my fair son ! 

Alph. Could I have lived, 
£ might have been a warrior ! Now, farewell ! 
But look upon me still ! — I will not blench 
When the keen sabre flashes. Mark me well ! 
Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls, 
So thou wilt look upon me ! 

Gar. {to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord ! 
We must be gone ! Thou canst not bear it ! 

Gon. Peace ! 
Who hath told thee how much man's heart can 

bear ? 
- - Lend me thine arm — my brain whirls fear- 

fuUy — 
How thick the shades close round ! My boy ! 

my boy ! 
Where art thou in this gloom ? 

Gar. Let us go hence ! 
This is a dreadful moment ! 

Gon. Hush ! — what saidst thou ? 
Now let me look on him ! — Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist which wraps us .-* 

Gar. I behold — 
for a thousand Spaniards ! to rush down 

Gx)n. ThDU seest — My heart stands still to 
hear thee speak ! 

— There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 'twere the dead of night ! 

Gar. The hosts have closed 
Around the spot in stillness Through the 

spears. 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not ! 

— But now 

Gon. He bade me keep mine eye upon him, 
Ajxd all is darkness round me ! — Now ? 



Gar. A sword, 
A sword springs upward, like a lightning oursi, 
Through the dark serried mass ! Its cold-blui 

glare 
Is wavering to and fro — 'tis vanished — hark l 
Go7i. I heard it, yes ! — I heard the diiJl dead 
sound 
That heavily broice the silence! Didst thn* 

speak ? 
— I lost thy Avords — com© nearer ! 

Gar. 'Twas — 'tis past ! — 
The sword fell then ! 

Her. {with exultation.') Flow forth, thou noble 
blood ! 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Unchecked and brightly forth ! Thou kinglj 

stream ! 
Blood of our heroes ! blood of martyi'dom ! 
Which through so many warrior hearts hast 

poured 
Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free off'ering ! Bathe the 

land, — 
But there thou shalt not sink ! Our verj' air 
Shall take thy coloring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous, 
With battle hues of thee ! And thy deep voice, 
Rising above them to the judgment seat, 
Shall call a burst of gathered vengeance down, 
To sweep th' oppressor from us ! For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er ! 

Gon. {endeavori7ig to rouse himself.) 'Tis all a 

dream ! 

There is not one — no hand on earth could harm 

That fair boy's graceful head ! Why look you 

thus? 

Abd. {pointing to Carlos.) Christian ! e'en yet 

thou hast a son ! 
Gon. E'en yet ! 

Car. My father, take me from these fearful men. 
Wilt thou not save me, father ? 

Go7i. {attempting to unsheathe his sword.) Is tht 
strength 
From mine arm shivered ? Garcias, follow me I 
Gar. Whither, my chief.? 
Go)i, Why we can die as well 
On yonder plain — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require, 
Sooner than e'en this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

[ Voices heard at a im«A«f 
Her. Hush ! what strain 
Floats on the wind ? 

Gar. 'Tis the Cid's battle song ! 
[ What marvel hath been wrought ? 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



341 



Voices approaching heard in chorus. 

The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour peal and the tecbir shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

XiMENA enters, followed by the Citizens, 
with the Banner. 
Xim. Is it too late ? — My father, these are 
men 
Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner ! Is their zeal too late ? 
— O, there's a fearful history on thy brow ! 
What hast thou seen ? 
Gar. It is not all too late. 
Xim. My brothers ! 
Her. AU is well. 

(To Garcias.) Hush ! wouldst thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar embers mounts in sudden bright- 
ness ? 
. say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain ! 
On to the rescue ! 

Xitn. Bless me, O my father ! 
And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers, 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm 
Lit up by flashing swords ! 

Go7i. {falling v^on her neck.) Hath aught been 
spared ? 
Am I not all bereft ? Thou'rt left me still ! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me still ! 
Farewell ! — thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena ! 

Xim. Fare thee well ! 
If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the fleld, 
The voice is hushed that still hath welcomed thee, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Her. Peace ! no more ! 
This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of teai's ! Be of strong heart ! 
Give me che banner ! Swell the song again ! 
Cits. Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 
To-morrow for the dead ! 

[Exeunt omnes. 

Scene VIH. — Before the Altar of a Church. 

Elmina rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elm. The cloudi are fearful that o'erhang thy 
ways, 
thou mysterious Heaven ! It cannot be 
t'hat I have drawn the vials of thy wrath 
To Durst upon me, through the lifting up 



Of a proud heart, elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowen 
But wreathed a cup of trembling ; and the lovo, 
The boundless love, my spirit was formed to bear 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy ! I never looked 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seemed glowing with their quiet blessedness. 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering senfi* 
Of earth, and its pale changes ; e'en like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious 

dreams — 
A restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade ! How havi 

I shrunk 
From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice. 
With its low tokens of mortality, 
Till my heart fainted 'midst their smiles I — 

their smiles ! 
Where are those glad looks now ? — Could they 

go down 
With all their joyous light, that seemed not 

earth's. 
To the cold grave ? My children ! — righteoua 

Heaven ! 
There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye. 
That this should be the hour ! 

XiMENA enters. 

Xim. They are gone forth 
Unto the rescue ! — strong in heart and hope. 
Faithful, though few ! — My mother, let thy 

prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field foi 

Spain, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons ! For mc, my part is done ! 
The flame, which dimly might have lingered yol 
A little while, hath gathered all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once. And it is well ! 
The shadows are around me : to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Elm. My child ! what dream 
Is on thy soul ? Even now thine aspect ^cars 
Life's brightest inspiration I 

Xim. Death's ! 

Ebn. Away ! 
Thine eye hath starry clearness ; and tl y cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hua 
Than tinged its earliest flower ! 

Xim. It well may be I 



548 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their coloring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope ! 
Elm. Nay, speak not thus ! 
There's that about thee shining which would 

send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Were't not for these sad words. The dim cold 

air 
Ani solemn light, which wrap these tombs and 

shrines 
As a pale-gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien ! — O, no ! this is not 

death ! 
Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain, 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer ? He hath many forms — 
They should not all be fearful ! If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land, 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with 

thirst. 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer winds, a voice of melody, 
Solemn, yet lovely ? Mother, I depart ! — 
Be it thy comfort, in the after days. 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Elm. Distract me not 
With such wild fears ! Can I bear on with life 
When thou art gone ? — thy voice, thy step, thy 

smile. 
Passed from my path ! Alas ! even now thine 

eye 
Is changed — thy cheek is fading ! 

Xim. Ay, the clouds 
Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight ; 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness ! It may soothe 
riiy woes, my mother ! if I tell thee now 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested. 
Elm. Thine! 
Xim. Rejoice 
For her that, when the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were 

dried. 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time. 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart. 
To wither ; sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 
Which lent one moment of existence light 
That dicimed the rest forever ! 



Elm. How is this ? 
My child, what mean'st thou ? 
Xim. Mother ! I have loved, 
And been beloved ! The sunbeam of au hour, 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
As they lay shining in their secret founts. 
Went out and left them colorless. 'Tis past — 
And what remains on earth ? The rainbow mist, 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my 

sight 
Is cleared to look on all things as they are ! — 
But this is far toomour/iful ! Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! — 
Therefore I would go hence ! 
Elm. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Xim. O, pardon, pardon that I veiled 
My thoughts from thee ! But thou hadst woes 

enough. 
And mine came o'er me when thy soul had 

need 
Of more than mortal strength ! For I had 

scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place witliin my secret heart, 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 
I saw the warriors to their field gc forth, 
And he — my chosen — was there amongst th*? 

rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! I looked again : 
The strife grew dark beneath me ; but his plume 
Waved free above the lances. Yet again — 
It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling 

o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted, 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! — 
And then — at last — I hurried to the gate. 
And met him there ! — I met him ! — on his 

shield. 
And with his cloven helm, and shivered sword. 
And dark hair steeped in blood ! They bore 

him past : 
Mother ! — I saw his face ! O, such a deatl 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth. 
The pride of woman's eye ! 

Elm. Sweet daughter, peace ! 
Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy 

frame 

Xim. There wiU be peace ere long. I shut 

ray heart. 
Even as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief, 
That I might spare it thee ! — But now the hou? 
Is come, when that, which would have pierced 

thy soul, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



3>kt 



Shall be its healing barm. O, weep thou not, 
Save with a gentle sorrow ! 

Flm. Must it be ? 
Art thou indeed to leave me ? 

Xim. {exultmgly.) Be tnou glad ! 
1 say, rejoice above thy favored child ! 
Joy, for the soldier when his nela is fought, 
Joy, for the peasant when his vintage task 
Is closed at eve ! — But most ol all for her. 
Who, when her life had changed its glittering 

robes 
Pjr the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journey ers on, 
Cast down its weight and slept ! 

Elm. Alas ! thine eye 
Is waiidering — yet how brightly ! Is this death ? 
Or some high wondrous vision ? Speak, my 

child ! 
How is it with thee now ? 

Xim. {icildly.) I see it still ! 
'Tis floating, like a glor.ous cloud on high. 
My father's banner ! Hear'st thou not a sound ? 
The trumpet of C'istile ! Praise, praise to 

Heaven ! 
— Now may the w<*ary rest ! — Be still ! — Who 

calls 

The night so fearful ? [She dies. 

Elm. No ! she is not dead ! 
Ximena ! — speak to me ! O, yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound, 
Ere the deep silence fall ! — What, is all 

hushed ? — 
No, no ! — it cannot be ! How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us ? But is this 
Her wonted look ? — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty ! Speak, Ximena ! 
Speak ! My heart dies within me ! She is 

gone. 
With all her blessed smiles ! My child ! my 

chUd ! 
Whera ait thou? — Where is that which an- 

sweied me. 
From thy soft- shining eyes ? — Hush ! doth she 

move? 
One light lock seemed to tremble on her brow, 
Aa a piQse throbbed beneath ; — 'twas but the 

voice 
Of my despair that stirred it ! She is gone ! 

[jSAe throws herself on the body. 

GoNZAXEZ enters wounded. 

Elm. {rising as he apjyroaches.) I must net -.ow 
be scorned ! — No, not a look. 



A whisper of reproach ! Behold my woe • 
Thou canst not scorn me now ! 
Gon. Hast thou heard all t 
Elm. Thy daughter on my bosom laid hei 

head, 
And passed away to rest ! Behold her therat 
Even such as death hath made her ! ' 

Gon. {bendiiig over Ximena' s body.) Thou wl 

gone 
A little while before me, my child i 
Why should the traveller weep to part "witk 

those, 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised 

land. 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away, 
And spread his couch beside them ? 

Elm. Must it be 
Henceforth enough that 07ice a thing so fair 
Had its bright place amongst us ! Is this all 
Left for the years to come ? We will not stay , 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gon. {still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou'rl 

laid 
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child I 
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 
A sainted warrior's tomb ! O, fitting place 
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 
Back unto Him that gave it ! And thy cheek 
Yet smiles in its bright paleness 1 

Elm, Hadst thou seen 
The*look with which she passed ! 

Gon. [still bending over her.) \STiy, 'tis almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, back 
Into my weary heart ! No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands 
That quenched young Ufe by violence ! We'vf 

seen 
Too much of horror, in one crowded hour, 
To weep for aught so gently gathered hence I 

— O, man leaves other traces ! 

Elm. {suddenly starting.) It returns 
On my bewildered soul ! Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue ? And thou'rt here alone 1 

— Where are my sons ? 

Gon. {solemnly.) We were too late ! 

Elm. Too late ! 
Hast thou nought else to tell me ? 

Gon. I brought back 
From that last field the banner of my sdres, 
And mv own death wound. 



1 " La voili, telle que 
Oraisons Funibres. 



raort nous I'a faite." — Bosrvat 



150 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Elm. Thine! 

Gon. Another hour 
Bhall hush its tlirobs forever. I go hence, 
And with me 

Elm. No ! man could not lift his hands — 
Where hast thou left thy sons ? 

Gon. I have no sons. 

Elm. What hast thou said ? 

Gon. That now there lives not one 
To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elm. {throwing herself on the ground, and 
speaking in a low hurried voice.) 
In one brief hour, all gone ! — and such a death ! 
T see their blood gush forth'! — their graceful 

heads ! 
• - Take the dark vision from me, O my God ! 
And such a death for them ! I was not there ! 
Tiiey were but mine in beauty and in joy, 
Not in that mortal anguish ! All, all gone ! — 
Why should I struggle more ? — What is this 

Power, 
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us, 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
Our own frail spirits prostrate ? 

{After a long pause.) Now I know 
Thy hand, my God I — and they are soonest 

crushed 
That most withstand it ! I resist no more. 

[She rises. 
A light, a light springs up from grief and death. 
Which M^th its solemn radiance doth reveal 
WTiy we have thus been tried ! 

^on. Then I may still 
Fix my last look on thee in holy love. 
Parting, but yet with hope ! 

Elm. {falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive ? 
O, I have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mine own, 
And borne the pang in silence ! I have cast 
Thy life's fair honor, in my wild despair, 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves. 
Whence thou hast snatched it back, to bear 

from earth. 
All stainless on thy breast. Well hast thou 

done — 
But I — canst thou forgive ? 

Gon. Within this hour 
I've stood upon that verge whence mortals fall. 
And learned how 'tis with one whose sight 

grows dim. 
And whose foot trembles on the gulfs darlt side. 
Death purifies all feeling : we will part 
^li pity and in love. 

Elm. Death 1 And thou too 



Art on thy way ! O, joy for thee, high heart : 
Glory and joy for thee ! The day is closed. 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle toils, though manj 

swords 
Have entered thine own soul ! But on my head 
li'^'oil the fierce invokings of despair. 
And I am left far distanced in the race, 
The lonely one of earth ! Ay, this is just. 
I am not worthy that upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yift -3 
Thy spirit unto God ! 

Gon. I'hou art ! thou art ! 
O, a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness, 
Even in the presence of eternal things, 
Wearing their chastened beauty aU undimmed, 
Assert their lofty claims ; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! We are here, 
Before that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth ; and meet it is 
For such a witness, in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face of Death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness. Who are they, 
That in one path have journeyed, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close ? 

A Citizen enters hastily. 

at. The Moors ! the Moors ! 

Gon. How ! is the city stormed ? 
O righteous Heaven ! for this I looked not yet * 
Hath all been done in vain ? Why, then, 'tii 

time 
For prayer, and then to rest ! 

Cit. The sun shall set, 
And not a Christian voice be left for prayer, 
To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls 
The Paynim host is gathering for th' assault, 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gon. Then my place 
Is here no longer. I had hoped to die 
E'en by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires ; but this was not to be ! 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour, 
And it hath still high duties. Now, my ^vife ! 
Thou mother of my children — of the dead - 
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elm. No, 7iot farewell ! My soul hath risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side. 
Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand. 
As one on whom a brave man's ]ove hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gon. I thank thee. Heaven ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



3*). 



rhat I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given, to temper hours like this 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 

{To Elmina.) We will not part 
But with the spirit's parting. 

Elm. One farewell 
To herj that, mantled with sad loveliness, 
Doth slumber at our feet ! My blessed child ! 
O, in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong, 
And holy courage did pervade thy woe. 
As light the troubled waters ! Be at peace ! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee ! And thy life 
E'en then was struck and withering at the core ! 
Farewell ! thy parting look hath on me fallen. 
E'en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been. My soul is 

hushed ; 
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk 
And settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast 

not lived 
In vain ! My child, farewell ! 

Go7i. Surely for thee 
Death had no sting, Ximena ! We are blest 
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass, 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower ! 
In token of th' undying love and hope 
Whose land is far away. [Exeunt. 

Scene IX. — The tcalls of the city. 
Hernandez — A feio citizens gathered round him. 

Her. Why, men have cast the treasures, which 

their lives 
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre» 
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the 

brand, 
E'en from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame Avhich gave fieir temples and their 

homes 
£n ashes to the winds • They have done this. 
Making 6 blasted voir" where once the sun 
Looked upon lovely d /veilings ; and from earth 
Razing aU record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath snrung, age faded, misery wept. 
And frail humanity knelt before her God ; 
They have done this, in their free nobleness, 
Eather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs 
Who have left man such lessons ! And these 

things 
Mide 3rour owr hills their witnesses ! The sky, 



Whose arch bends o'er you, and the soas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb, 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith, 
Thus proudly honored ! Be ye not outdone 
By the departed ! Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but gtronp 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flushed hope ; and we may die. 
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me ! 
And thou, Valencia ! triumph in thy fate — 
The ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Cits. We'll follow thee ! 
Alas for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we reared our children ! But away ! 
The Moor shall plant no Crescent o'er our fanes 

Voice, {from a tower on the walls.) Succors ! 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Cits, {rushing to the spot.) It is even so ! 
Now blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved ! 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Voice, {from the tower.) Line after line oi 
spears. 
Lance after lance, upon th' horizon'i verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up. 
Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host ! 

Another Voice. The Moor hath turned hiiu 
from our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain ! 

Cits, {shouting.) Castile ! Castile ! 

Gonzalez enters, supported by Elmina ind 
a citizen. 

Gon. What shouts of joy are these ? 

Her. Hail ! chieftain, hail ! 
Thus, even in death, 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! Behold, our God hati 

heard, 
And armed himself with vengeance ! Lo ! the^ 

come ! 
The lances of Castile ! 

Goti. I knew, I knew 
Thou wouldst not utterly, my God ! forsake 
Thy servant in his need ! My blood and tear* 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth. 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that I have livt i 
To see this hour ! 

Elm. And I, too, bless thy name. 
Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 

God ! — thou God of chastening ! 
Voice, {from the tower.) They move on i 

1 see the roytd banner in the air. 
With its emblazoned towers ! 



J52 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Go7i. Go, bring ye forth 
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here, 
To stream above me, for an answering sign 
That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still. What see you now ? 

Her. I see a kingdom's might upon its path. 
Moving, in terrible magnificence. 
Unto revenge and victory ! With the flash 
Of knightly swords, upspringing from the 

ranks. 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep, 
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn wind, 
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun. 
But flung from sheets of steel — it comes, it 

comes — 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Go7i. I hear it now, 
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes. 
Like thunder showers upon the forest paths. 

Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that 
sound ; 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's, 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Go7t. Hark ! how the wind 
SwcUs proudly with the battle march of Spain ! 
Now the heart feels its power ! A little while 
Grant me to live, my God ! What pause is this ? 

Her. A deep and dreadful one ! The serried 
files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

Voices heard without, chanting. 
Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die ! 

Elm. (to Gonzalez.) It is the death hymn o'er 
thy daughter's bier ! 
But I am calm ; and e'en like gentle winds, 
That music through the stillness of my heart 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gon. O, well those solemn tones 
Accord with such an hour ; for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul ! 
A .sound of trumpets atid shouting from the plain.] 



Her. Now, now they close ! Hark ! what \ 
dull, dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war shout ! I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given -- • 
Lo ! they have placed their shields before theii 

hearts. 
And lowered their lances v.-ith. the streamers on. 
And on their steeds bend forward ! God for 

Spain ! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! 
There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this ! 'Tis not the gallant crests, 
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry ; 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself ! 

Gon. O, raise me up. 
That I may look upon the noble scene ! — 
It will not be ! — That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight ! Whence rose that 

shout. 
As in fierce triumph ? 

Her. (clasping his hands.) Must I look on this ? 
The banner sinks — 'tis taken ! 

Gon. Whose ? 

Her. Castile's ! 

Gon. O God of Battles ! 

Elm. Calm thy noble heart ; 
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Her. Cheer thee yet ! 
Our knights have spurred to rescue. There ia 

now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things. 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! I see tall 

plumes 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide. 
Swayed by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood. 
Many a false corselet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through ! Now, shout for Santiago, 

shout ! 
Lo ! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down 
With their helmed riders ! Who, but One, car 

teU 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush. 
And trampling-on of furious multitudes ! 

Go?i. Thou'rt silent ! — Seest thou more ? My 
soul groM's dark. 

Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, 
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze ! 



THE ilEGE OF VALENCIA. 



S6t 



I can but tell thee how tall spears are crossed, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten \vith the stroke ! But round the spot 
Where, like a storm-felled mast, our standard 

sank, 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gon, Where is that spot ? 

'Eer. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
<n calm and stately grace. 

Gon. There, didst thou say ? 
Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died : my children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence ! 

Elm. They perished there ! 
— And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Even on that place of death ! O Merciful ! 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Her. {toith sudden exultation.) WTio is he, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm, 
And the gold-broidered mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; 
And the pale cross, Y'hich from his breastplate 

gleams 
With star-like radiance ? 

Gon. {eagerly') Didst thou say the cross ? 

Her. On his mailed bosom shines a broad white 
cross. 
And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Streams like a snow wreath. 

Gon. That should be — 

Her. The king ! 
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late, 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross. 
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight ?' 

Gon. {springing tip joyfully.) My king ! my 
king ! 
Now all good saints for Spain ! My noble king ! 
And thou art there ! That I might look once 

more 
Upon thy face ! But yet I thank thee. Heaven ! 
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city ! 

[He sinks back itito Elmina's arms. 

Her. He hath cleared 
A pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass, 

1 This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the 
last of that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross 
which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast 
when he went to battle, and had it made into one for hira- 
••If, " because of the faith which he had, that through it he 
"hould obtain tbe rjctmy " — Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. 
AH 



E'en as a gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters ! 'Tis redeemed — 
The castled banner ; it is flung once more, 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds ; 
There seems a wavering through the PsYnLtn 

hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore — now, now rejoice ! 

Go7i. What hast thou seen ? 

Her. AbduUah falls ! He falls ! 
The man of blood ! — the spoiler ! — he hath sunn 
In our king's path ! Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez ! 

They give way. 
The Crescent's van is broken ! On the hills, 
And the dark pine woods, may the infidel 
Call vainly, in his agony of fear. 
To cover him from vengeance ! Lo ! they fly ! 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scattered, e'en as leaves upon the wind ! 
Woe to the sons of Afric ! Let the plains, 
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas, 
Take their dead unto them ! — that blood shall 

wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gon. [attempting to raise hitnself.) Set me free . 
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle field ! 

Her. O, blest in death ! 
Chosen of Heaven, farewell ! Look on the Cross. 
And part from earth in peace ! 

Gon. Now, charge once more ! 
God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air ! Shout forth, «« Castile ! " 
The day is ours ! I go ; but fear ye not ! 
For Afric's lance is broken, and m) sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He dies. 

Elm. Look on me yet ! 
Speak one farewell, my husband >. —must thy 

voice 
Enter my soul no more ! Thine eye is Axed - 
Now is my life uprooted — and 'tis well. 

A Sound of triumphant music is heard, and many 
Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter. 

A Cit. Hush your triumphal sounds, althougL 

ye come 
E'en as deliverers ! But the noble dead, 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 

hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elm. {rising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile ! 
Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! How, know y» 

not 



^54 



THE SIEGE OF VALENt-IA. 



That all arrayed for triumph, crowned and robed 
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, 
E'en now a conqueror to his rest is gone ? 
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on -with victory's shout ! — He will not 

hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad ? 

Hei Lift ye the dead, 
And bear him with the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudly, as it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb wherein 
His warrior sires are gathered. 

[ They raise the body. 

Elm. Ay, 'tis thus 
Thou shouldst be honored ! And I follow thee, 
"With an unfaltering and a lofty step. 
To that last home of glory. She that wears 
In her deep heart the memory of thy love, 
Shall thence draw strength for all things ; till 

the God 
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chastened soul. 
Call it once more to thine ! 

{To the Castilians.) Awake, I say ! 

Tambour and trumpet, wake ! And let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral 

peal. 
— So should a hero pass to his repose. 

[Exeunt omnes. 

[CKITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE " SIKQE OF YALENCIA." 

" Of ' The Siege of Valencia ' we say little, for we by no 
means consider it as the happiest of Mrs. Hemans's efforts. 
Not that it does not contain, nay, abound with fine passages ; 
but the whole wants vigor, coherence, and compression. 
The story is meagre, and the dialogue too diffuse." — The 
Rev. Diu Mokehead in Constable's Magazine for Septem- 
ber, 1823. 

" The < Tales and Historic Scenes,' ' The Sceptic,' « The 
Welsh Melodies,' ' The Siege of Valencia,' and ' The Ves- 
pers of Palermo,' " says Delta, " may all be referred to this 
epoch of her literary career, and are characterized by beau- 
ties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference to the 
two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs. 
Ilemans was not essentially dramatic, yet that both abound 
with high and magnificent bursts of poetrj'. It was not 
eaay to adapt her fine taste and uniformly high-toned senti- 
ment tc the varied aspects of life and character necessary to 
tbf success of scenic exhibition ; and she must have been 
aware of the difficulties that surrounded her in that path. 
[f these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful trage- 
dies, they hold their places as dramatic poems of rich and 
rare poetic beauty. Indeed, it would be difficult, from 
the whole range of Mrs. Hemans's writings, to select any 
thing more exquisitely conceived, more skilfully managed, 
or more energetically written, than the Monk's tale in ' The 
Biege of Valencia.' The description of his son, in which he 
iwe?'« with parental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and 
tccompfishments — of bis horror at that son's renunciation 
of the Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel — and 
i the twilight encounter, in which he took the life of his 



own giving— are all worked out in the loftiest s|Hritft 
poetry." — Biographical Memoir, pp. 16, 17. 

" ' The Siege of Valencia,' ' The Last Constantine,' an« 
other poems, were publij^hed in the course of the year 1823 
This volume was marked by more distinct evidences of 
originality than any of Mrs. Hemans's previous works. 
None of her after poems contain finer bursts of strong, fer- 
vid, indignant poetry than ' The Siege of Valencia : iu 
story — a thrilling conflict between maternal love and tha 
inflexible spirit of chivalrous honor — afforded to her an 
admirable opportunity of giving utterance to the two masiei 
interests of her mind. It is a tale that will bear a second 
reading — though, it must be confessed that, as in the cass 
of ' The Vespers of Palermo,' somewhat of a monotony of 
coloring is thrown over its scenes by the unchanged employ- 
ment of a lofty and enriched phr-iseology, which would 
have gained in emphasis by its being more sparingly used. 
Ximena, too, all glowing and heroic as she is, stirring up 
the sinking hearts of the besieged citizens with her battle 
song of the Cid, and dying as it were of that strain of tri- 
umph — is too spiritual, too saiutly, wholly to carry away 
the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her splendid, 
high-toned devotion — our tears are called forth by the grief 
of her mother, the stately Elmina, broken down, but not 
degraded, by the agony of maternal affection, to connive at 
a treachery she is too noble wholly to carry through. The 
scenes with her husband are admirable; some of her 
speeches absolutely startle us with their passion and inten- 
sity—the following, for instance : — 

' Love 1 love I there are soft smiles and gentle words,' etc." 
— Chorley's Memorials of Mrs. Hemans, pp. 110-112. 
" ' The Siege of Valencia ' is a dramatic poem, but not 
intended for representation. The story is extremely simple. 
The Moors, who besiege Valencia, take the two sons of the 
governor, Gonzalez, captive, as they come to visit theu 
father, and now the ransom demanded for them is the sur- 
render of the city : they are to die if the place is not yielded 
up. Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, theii 
sister, are the remaining members of a family to which so 
dreadful an option is submitted. The poem is one of the 
higliest merit. The subject is of great dignity, being con- 
nected with the defence of Spain against the Moors ; and at 
the same time it is of the greatest tenderness, offering a suc- 
cession of the most moving scenes that can be imagined to 
occur in the bosom of a family. The father is firm, the 
daughter is heroic, the mother falters. She finds her way 
to the Moorish camp, sees her children, forms her plan foi 
betraying the town, and then is not able to conceal her grief 
and her design from her husband. He immediately sends a 
defiance to the Moors, his children are brought out and be- 
headed, a sortie is made from the besieged city : finally, the 
King of Spain arrives to the rescue j tlie wrongs of Gon- 
zalez are avenged ; he himself dies in victory ; and tb« 
poem closes with a picture of his wife, moved by the strong* 
est grief, of which she is yet able to restrain the expression. 
The great excellence of the poem lies in the description of 
the struggle between the consciousness of duty- and matemai 
fondness. We believe none but a mother could have writ 
ten it." — Professor Norton, in JVorth .American Review 
for JlprU, 1827. 

" The graceful powers of Mrs. Hemans in the same walk 
which had been trodden so grandly by Mi'^s £aillie, were 
manifested in her ' Vespers of Palermo, and her ' Siege of 
Valencia.' The latter is a noble work, and as a poem rankf 
with her highest productions, though it is filled too uniform- 
ly perliaps with the spirit of her own mind, to be very dis- 
tinctively draiiatic. It has indeed variety, but less of Um 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



861 



variety of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted 
aature, which belongs to few among mankind, and to them, 
perhaps, only in strange and terrible crises. The steadfast- 
ness of the paternal chieftain, the sterner enthusiasm of the 
priest, the mother's maddening affection, and the gentle 
heroism of the melancholy Ximena are drawn with indi- 
viduality, but it is the individuality of a common great- 
ness, the apparent appropriation to many of an essence really 
the same in all. In her own heart the poetess found this 
pure essence ; and when she created her Christian patriots 
at Valencia, she but translated herself into a new dialect of 
manners and motives. Of this one elevated material she 
baa, however, made fine dramatic use. The language, while 
faultless in its measured music, has passion to swell its ca- 
dences ; the loftiness is never languid ; and the flow of the 
verse is skilfully broken into the animated abruptness suit- 
able to earnest dialogue. There are many, too, of those 
sudden glimpses of profound truth in which the energy of 
passion seems to force its rude way, in a moment, into re- 
gions of the heart that philosophy would take hours to sur- 
rey with its technical language. Thus, when the iron- 
kearted monk is telling the story of his son's disgrace, — 

•Elmina. He died? 
Hernandez. Not so I 
— Death I Death I Why, earth should be a paradise, 
To make that name so fearful 1 Had he died 
■^1411 his young fame about him for a shroud, 



I had not learned the might of agony 

To bring proud natures low I No ! he fell off 

"Why do I tell thee this ? What right bust thou 
To learn how passed the glory from my house ? 
Yet listen. He forsook me 1 He that was 
As mine own soul forsook me I — trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires I — ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain ; 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God I Now, talk of death 1 

" The whole of the scene to which the passage belongs ij 
moulded in the highest spirit of tragic verse. The bewilder 
ment of the mother betrayed into guilt by overpowering 
affection, and the death of the beautiful enthusiast Ximena, 
are sketched in a style of excellence little inferior ; and tlit 
peculiar powers of Mrs. Hemans's poetry, less dramatic thar 
declamatory, have full scope in the spirit-stirring address o^ 
the latter to the fainting host of Valencia, as she lifts in hei 
own ancient city the banner of the Cid, and recounts th» 
sublime legend of his martial burial. Spain and its n 
mances formed the darling theme of Mrs. Hemans's mus<> 
and before leaving the subject, she gives us her magnifice 
series of ballads, the ' Songs of the Cid,' which meet us a 
the close of the drama, as if to form an appropriate chori» 
to the whole." — William Archer Butler, Introductoi 
M'otice to Jfationnl Lyrics and Songs for Music. Dublin 
1838.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SONG. 



FODNDED OX Ajr ABABIAK ANECDOTE. 

Away ! though still thy sword is red 

With lifeblood from my sire, 
No drop of thine may now be shed 

To quench my bosom's fire ; 
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest 
Than dews upon the desert's breast. 

I've sought thee 'midst the sons of men, 
Through the wide city's fanes ; 

I've sought thee by the lion's den, 
O'er pathless, boundless plains ; 

No step that marked the burning waste, 

But mine its lonely course hath traced. 

Thy name hath been a baleful spell. 

O'er my dark spirit cast ; 
No thought may dream, no Avords may tell. 

What there unseen hath passed : 
This withered cheek, this faded eye, 
A.re sed» j *" thi'o — behold ! and fly ! 



Hath not my cup for thee been poured 
Beneath the palm-tree's shade ? 

Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored 
Within my dwelling laid ? 

What though unknown — yet who shall rest 

Secure — if not the Arab's guest .? 

Haste thee ! and leave my threshold floor 

Inviolate and pure ! 
Let not thy presence tempt me more, 

— Man may not thus endure ! 
Away ! I bear a fettered arm, 
A heart that bums — but must not harm. 

Begone ! outstrip the swift gazelle ! 

The wind in speed subdue ! 
Fear cannot fly so swift, so weU, 

As vengeance shall pursue ; 
And hate, like love, in parting pain, 
Smiles o'er one hope — we meet again 1 

To-morrow — and th' avenger's hand« 

The warrior's dart is free ! 
E'en now, no spot in all thy land. 

Save this, had sh-^ltered thee : 



J56 



MISCELLANEOUS P( 4MS. 



Let blood the monarch's hall profane, 
rhe Arab's tent must bear no stain ! 

Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast 

A-^oid thy secret way ! 
And sternly, till thy steps be past, 

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day ! 
I "would not that thy doom should be 
Assigned by Heaven to aught but me. 



ALP HORN SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK. 

What dost thou here, brave Swiss ? 
iTorgett'st thou thus thy native clime — 
The lovely land of thy bright spring time ? 
The land of thy home, with its free delights, 
And fresh green valleys and mountain heights ? 

Can the stranger's yield thee bliss ? 

What welcome cheers thee now ? 
Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around ? 
Where are the peaks, with their snow wreaths 

crowned ? 
Where is the song, on the wild winds borne. 
Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn, 

Or the peasant's fearless brow ? 

But thy spirit is far away ! 
Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes. 
Where the white Alps look through the sunny 

skies. 
With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free, 
And the sparkling blue of the glacier sea. 

And the summits clothed with day ! 

Back, noble child of Tell ! 
Back to the wild and the silent glen. 
And the frugal board of peasant men ! 
Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here ? — 
Away ! not a true Swiss heart is near, 

Agairst thine own to swell ! 



THE CROSS or THE SOUTH. 

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in 
the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed 
to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South 
America.') 

iN the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannas in boundless magnificence 
spread, 



And bearing sublimely their snow wreath* oi 

high, 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir tree waves o'er me, the fireflies' red light 
With its quick- glancing splendor illumines the 

night ; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy loadstars resplendently bum 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I 

turn, 
Bright Cross of the South ! and beholding thee 

shine, 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its imperishing symbol emblazoned in thee. 

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone. 
Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,' 

When first his bright banner of faith was un- 
furled ; 

Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their 
prow 

Made the billows the path of their glory, wert 
thou. 

And to me, as I traversed the world of the vrest, 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest, 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride. 
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide. 

Shine on ! — my own land is a far-distant spot. 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not j 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 

may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on 

thee! 

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazinf 

shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine ; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, 
Soai's high o'er the Andes to mingle with the* 

1 Constantine 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 35. 




But fear not t/iou the lesson fraught 


THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 


With Sorrow's chastening power to know 




Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught 


I LAY upon the solemn plain, 


" To melt at others' woe." 


And by the funeral mound, 




Where those who died not there in vain. 


Then still, with heart as blest, ufe warm. 


Their place of sleep had found. 


Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth ; 




Ah ! why should Virtue dread the stortiHf 


' iwas silent where the free blood gushed, 


If sunbeams prove her worth ? 


When Persia came arrayed — 




So many a voice had there been hushed, 




So many a footstep stayed. 




I slumbered on the lonely spot 


WTIITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OP 


So sanctified by death ; 


THE ALBUM OF THE SAME. 


T slumbererl — but my rest was not 


What first should consecrate as thine 


As theirs «vho lay beneath. 


The volume destined to be fraught 




With many a sweet and playful line, 


For on my dreams, that shadowy hour. 
They rose — the chainless dead — 


With many a pure and pious thought ? 


All armed they sprang, in joy, in power. 


It should be, what a loftier strain 


Up from their grassy bed. 


Perchance less meetly would impart ; 




What never yet was poured in vain, — 


1 saw their spears, on that red field. 


The blessing of a grateful heart — 


Flash as in time gone by — 




('based to the seas without his shield. 


For kindness, which hath soothed the horn 


I saw the Persian fly. 


Of anxious grief, of weary pain, 




And oft, with its beguiling power, 


I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 
Called to another fight : 


Taught languid hope to smile again. 


From visions of our glorious past. 


Long shall that fervent blessing rest 


Who doth not wake in might ? 


On thee and thine ; and, heavenwards bori\«, 




Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, 




As thou wouldst bear to all that mourn. 


10 MISS F. A. L., ON HER BIRTHDAY 




What wish can Friendship form for thee, 




What brighter star invoke to shine ? — 


TO THE SAME; 


Thy path from every thorn is free, 




And every rose is thine ! 


ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHEE. 


Life hath no purer joy in store. 


Say not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear. 


Time hath no sorrow to efface ; 


Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier ! 


Hope cannot paint one blessing more 


More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that fails 


Than memory can retrace ! 


Each drop to life some latent virtue calls 




Awakes some purer hope, ordained to rise, 


Some hearts a boding fear might own, 


By earthly sorrow strengthened for the skifes ; 


Had Fate to them thy portion given, 


Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love. 


Since many an eye, by tears alone, 


With its lost treasure, seeks a home — above. 


Is taught to gaze on heaven ! 






But grief will claim her hour, — and He whort 


And there are virtues oft concealed, 


eye 


Till roused by anguish from repose ; 


Looks pitying down on nature's agony, 


As odorous trees no balm will yield, 


He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep, 


Till li-om theii wounds it flows. 


Who bids us hope, forbids us not *'0 weep ! 



i58 



MISCELJ^ANEOUS POEMS. 



He, too, hath wept — and sacred be the woes 
Once borne by Him, their inmost source who 

knows. 
Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring 
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing ! 

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread 

stroke 
Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke ? 
O, well may those, yet lingering here, deplore 
The vanished light, that cheers theii- path no 

more ! 
Th' Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt. 
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt ! 
By fire and storm. Heaven tries the Christian's 

worth, 
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth, 
Where still too long, with beings born to die, 
Time hath dominion o'er Eternity. 

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost. 
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the 

most. 
Then comes her triumph ! through the shadowy 

gloom. 
Her star in glory rises from the tomb, 
Mounts to the dayspring, leaves the cloud below. 
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow ! 
Yes, all is o'er ! fear, doubt, suspense are fled — 
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead ! 
The final ordeal of the soul is past. 
And the pale brow is sealed to Heaven at last ! * 

And thou, loved spirit ! for the skies mature. 
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure ; 
Thou that didst make the home thy presence 

blessed 
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast. 
Where Peace a holy dwelling-place had found. 
Whence beamed her smile benignantly around ; 
Thou, that to bosoms widowed and bereft 
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left. 
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be. 
Till Heaven recall surviving love to thee ! 

O cherished and revered ! fond memory well 
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell ! 
So pure, so blest thy life, that Death alone 
Could make more perfect happiness thine own. 
He came : thy cup of joy, serenely bright, 
Full to the last, still flowed in cloudless light ; 
He came — an angel, bearing from on high 
The all it wanted — Immortality ! 

1 " Till we have sealed the servants of God in their fore- 
aids " — Revelation. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF GARCILASO 
DE LA VEGA. 

Divine Eliza — since the sapphire sky 
Thou measur'st now on angel wings, and feet 
Sandalled with immortality — O, why 
Of me forgetful ? Wherefore not entreat 
To hurry on the time, when I shall see 
The veil of mortal being rent in twain, 
And smile that I am free ? 

In the third circle of that happy land. 
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand. 
Another loveKer landscape, a new plain, 
Other romantic streams and mountains blue, 
And other vales, and a new shady shore, 
When I may rest, and ever in my view 
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
Of being sundered more ? 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO 

O, PURE and bless6d soul, 

That, from thy clay's control 
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere 

And from thy crystal throne 

Look'st down, with smiles alone. 
On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear ; 

Thy happy feet have trod 

The starry-spangled road. 
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding ; 

And from their erring track 

Thou charm' st thy shepherds back. 
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding. 

O, who shall Death withstand — 

Death, whose impartial hand 
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine ! 

When shall our ears again 

Drink in so sweet a strain, 
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine 1 



APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THB 
CAPE TO VASCO DE GAMA. 

TBANSLATED FROM THK FIFTH BOOK OF THE tUJlAD 0» 
CAMOEN9. 

Propitious winds our daring bark impellea 
O'er seas which mortal ne'er till then beheld. 
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood 
Watching the prow glide swiftly through thi 
flood. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



3-5'- 



High o'er our heads arose a cloud so vast, 
O'er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast : 
Awful, immense, it came ! so thick, so drear, 
tts gloomy grandeur chilled our hearts with fear, 
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar, 
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore. 

Thrilled with amaze, I cried, '* Supernal 

Power ! 
VVl at mean the omens of this threatening hour r 
Wliat the dread mystery of this ocean clime. 
So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime ? " 
Scarr>e had I spoke, when lo ! a mighty form 
/[■Gwered through the gathering shadows of the 

storm ; 
Of rude proportions and gigantic size, 
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk 

eyes ; 
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew, 
Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue. 
Weir may I tell thee that his limbs and height. 
In vast dimensions and stupendous might. 
Surpassed that wonder, once the sculptor's boast. 
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast. 
Deep was his voice — in hollow tones he spoke. 
As if from ocean's inmost caves they broke ; 
And but that form to view, that voice to hear, 
Spread o'er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills 

of fear. 

" O daring band ! " he cried, " far, far more 

bold 
Than all whose deeds recording fame has told ; 
Adventurous spirits ! whom no bounds of fear 
Can teach one pause in rapine's fierce career ; 
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main, 
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign. 
Where, till this moment, from the birth of time, 
No sail e'er broke the solitude sublime : 
Since thus yo pierce the veil by Nature thrown 
O'er the dark secrets of the Deep Unknown, 
Ne'er yet revealed to aught of mortal birth, 
Howe'er supreme in power, unmatched in 

worth — 
Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate. 
Rash, bold intruders ! on your course await ! 
What countless perils, woes of darkest hue. 
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must 

yet subdue. 

*'Knr«. that o'er every bark, whose fearless 
helm 
invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm. 
Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, 
«lnd guard with storms my own terrific shore ! 



And on the fleet, which £.rst presumes to brav* 
The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, 
Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear 
Have time to prophesy destruction near ! 

" Yes, desperate band ! if right my hopes di- 
vine. 
Revenge, fierce, full, unequalled, shall oe mine J 
Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturooi 

way — 
Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey 
And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find 
(If no false dreams delude my prescient mind) 
My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm. 
Death shall be deemed misfortune's mildest form. 

'< Lo ! where my victim comes ! — of nobI« 
birth. 
Of cultured genius, and exalted worth. 
With her,^ his best beloved, in all her charms, 
Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms ! 
Prom foaming waves, from raging winds they fly, 
Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! 
O, dai'k the fate that calls them from their home 
On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, 
And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb, 
Por woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom ! 

— Yes ! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain. 
Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering paij j 
Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear. 
Prom her, the soft, the tdolized, the fair ; 
Shall see those limbs, of nature's finest mould, 
Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight cold, 
And, in long wanderings o'er a desert land, 
Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand. 

" Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold 
Who live through toils unequalled and untold ! 
On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky, 
The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die ! 
Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense, 
Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense ; 
Till in one last embrace, with mortal tlif oes. 
Their struggling spirits mount from anguish ti 
repose ! " 

As the dark phantom sternly thus portrayed 
Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade, — 
" Who then art thoic f " I cried. " Dread being. 

teU 
Each sense thus bending in amazement's spell 1 * 

— AVith fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide 
Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied : 

1 Don Emmanuel de Sonsa, ».Ad his wife, Leonora de 8k 



360 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



'♦ Behold the genius of that secret shore 
Where the wind rages and the billows roar — 
That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone, 
To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown ! 
Far to the southern pole my throne extends, 
That hidden rock, w^hich Afric's region ends. 
Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, 
M'hose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite." 

Thtid having said, with strange, terrific cries. 
The giant spectre vanished from our eyes ; 
In sable clouds dissolved — while far around. 
Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells 
resound ! 

A DIRGE. 

Weep for the early lost ! — 
How many flowers were mingled in the crown 
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down. 

E'en when life promised most ! 
How many hopes have withered ! They that bow 
To Heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now. 

Did the young mother's eye 
Behold her child, and close upon the day, 
Ere from its glance th' awakening spirit's ray 

In sunshine could reply ? 
— Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn ! 
O. strong is faith, if woe like this be borne. 

For there is hushed on earth 
A voice of gladness — there is veiled a face, 
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place 

By the once joyous hearth : 
A smile hath passed, which filled its home with 

light, 
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright ! 

But there is power with faith ! 
Power, e'en though natvire o'er th' untimely 

grave 
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave ; 

For sorrow comes of Death, 
And with a yearning heart we linger on. 
When they, whose glance unlocked its founts, 
are gone ! 

But glory from the dust, 
And praise to Him, the Merciful, for those 
Un whose bright memory love may still repose 

With an immortal trust ! 
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, 
Such hope as she hath left — " the pure in heart ! " 

1823. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE 
TO YENHS. 

BOOK I., ODE XXX. 

O, LEAVE thine own loved isle. 
Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores 

And here in Glycera's fair temple smile, 
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours. 

Waft here thy glowing son ; 
Bring Hermes ; let the Nymphs thy path s'or 
round. 

And youth, unlovely till thy gifts be woi, 
And the light Graces with the zone unbound. 



TO HIS ATTENDANT. 

BOOK I., ODE XXXVIII. 

I HATE the Persian's costly pride : 

The wreaths with bands of linden tied - 

These, boy, delight me not ; 
Nor where the lingering roses bide 

Seek thou for me the spot. 
For me be nought but myrtle twined — 
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind 

Alike thy brows and mine, 
While thus I quaif the bowl, reclined 

Beneath th' o'erarching vine. 



TO DELIUS. 

BOOK II., ODE III. 

Firm be thy soul ! — serene in power. 
When adverse fortune clouds the sky 

Undazzled by the triumph's hour. 
Since, Delius, thou must die — 

Alike, if still to grief resigned, 

Or if, through festal days, 'tis thine 

To quafi", in grassy haunts reclined, 
The old Falernian wine — 

Haunts where the silvery poplar boughs 
Love with the pine's to blend on high, 

And some clear fountain brightly flows 
In graceful windings by. 

There be the rose with beauty fraught 
So soon to fade, so brilliant now : 



HE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



3oj 



There be the wine, the odors brought, 
While time and fate allow ! 

For ihou, resigning to thine heir 

Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store, 
Must leave that home, those woodlands fair, 

9n yellow Tiber's shore. 

What then avails it, if thou trace 
From Liachus thy glorious line ? 

Or, sprung from some ignoble race, 
If not a roof be thine ? 

Since the dread lot for all must leap 
Forth from the dark revolving urn, 

And we must tempt the gloomy deep, 
Whence exiles ne'er return. 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 

BOOK ni., ODE XIII. 

0, WORTHY fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 

Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright ! 
To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, 
Whose forehead swells with horns of infant 
might : 
E'en now of love and war he dreams in vain, 
Doomed with his blood thy gelid wave to 
stain. 

Let the red dogstar burn ! — his scorching beam 
Fierce in resplemience shall molest not thee ! 

Still sheltered from his rays, thy banks, fair 
stream ! 
To the wild flock siround thee wandering free. 



And the tired oxen from the furrowed field, 
The genial freshness of their breath shall yield. 

And thou, bright fount ! ennobled and renowned 

Shalt by thy poet's votive song be made ; 
Thou and the oak with deathless verdure 
crowned, 
AVhose boughs, a pendent canopy, o'ershade 
Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many 

a tale, 
Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale. 



TO FAUNUS. 

BOOK. III., ODE XVIII 

Faunus ! who lov'st the flying nymphs to C£ *se 
O, let thy steps with genial influence tread 

My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace 
Soft on my nursling groves and borders plied i 

If, at the mellow closing of the year. 

A tender kid in sacrifice be thine, 
Nor fan the liberal bowls to Venus deaf , 

Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine 

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays, 
When the December feast returns to thee : 

Calmly the ox along the pasture stravs, 
With festal villagers from toil set free. 

Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreai, 
llien shower the woods to thee their foliag* 
round ; 

And the glad laborer triumphs that his feet 
In triple dance have struck the bated group d 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 

A TRAGEDY.^ 

. At)out this time, Mrs. Hemans was engaged in the composition of another tragedy, entitled * De Chatillon, or, Titt 
Crusaders ; ' in which, with that deference to fair criticism which she was always ready to avow, and to act upon, sh« 
lnad« it her purpose to attempt a more compressed style of writing, avoiding that redundancy of poetic diction which hao 
been censured as the prevailing fault of ' The Vespers.' It may possibly be thought that in the composition in question 
ihe has fallen into the opposite extreme of want of elaboration ; yet, in its present state, it is, perhaps, scarcely amenable 
to criticism — for, by some strange accident, the fair copy transcribed by herself was either destroyed or mislaid in some 
of her subsequent removals, and the piece was long considered as utterly lost. Nearly two years after he' death, tb« 
original rough MS., with all its hieroglyphical blots and erasures, was discovered amongst a mass of forgott-u papers; 
and it has been a task of no small difficulty to decipher it, and complete the copy now first given to the world. Allow 
ances must, therefore, be made for the disadvantages under which it appears, — thus deprived of her own finishibi 
touches, and with ui means of ascertaining how far it may differ from the copy so unaccountably nri.ssing."— ..Wcnwir 
r.p. 80, 81.J 



1 First published in Edition of Collected Works, vol. iv 1840 
.46 



SdJ 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 



Rainier de Chatillow, a French Baron. 
Ather, His Brother. 
Melech, ^ Saracen Emir 
HermaNj 

DU MoRWiY, 



Knights. 



Gaston, .^ Vassal of Rainitr'$, 

Urban, ^ Pritst. 

Sadi. 



MoRAiMA, Daughter of Melech. 
Knights, Arabs Citizens, Sfc. 



ACT I. 



ScBNi I. — Before the gates of a city in Palestine. 



Urban, Priests, Citizens, at the gates, 
looking from the walls above. 



Others 



Urb. (to a Citizen on the walls above.) 
You see their lances glistening ? You can tell 
The way they take ? 

Cit. Not yet. Their march is slow ; 
They have not reached the jutting cliif, where 

first 
The mountain path divides. 

Urb. And now ? 

Cit. The wood 
Shuts o'er their track. Now spears are flashing 

out — 
It is the banner of De Chatillon. 
[Very slow and mournful military micsic without-} 
This way ! they come this way ! 

Urb. All holy saints 
Grant that they pass us not ! Those martial 

sounds 
Have a strange tone of sadness ! Hark, they swell 
Proudly, yet fuU of sorrow. 

Rainier de Chatillon enters with knights, 
soldiers, S^c. 

Welcome, knights ! 
Ye bring us timely aid ! men's hearts were full 
Of doubt and terror. Brave De Chatillon ! 
Tru^ soldier of the Cross ! I welcome thee ; 
I greet thee with all blessing ! Where thou art 
There is deliverance ! 

Sai. {bending to receive the Priest's blessijig.) 
Holy man, I come 
From a lost battle. 

Urb. And thou bring'st the heart 
Whose spirit yields not to defeat. 

Rai. I bring 
My father's bier. 

Urb. His bier ! I marvel not 
To see your brow thus darkened ! And he died. 
As he had lived, in arms ? 

Rai. {gloomily.) Not, not in arms — 
5is war cry had been silenced. Have ye place 



Amidst your ancient knightly sepulchres 

For a warrior with his sword ? He bade me beai 

His dust to slumber here. 

Ui-b. And it shall sleep 
Beside our noblest, while we yet can call 
One holy place our own ! Heard you, my lord, 
That the fierce Kaled's host is on its march 
Against our city ? 

Rai. {loith sudden exultation.) That were joy 
to know! 
That were proud joy ! — Who told it ? — there'i 

a weight 
That must be heaved from ofi" my troubled hearC 
By the strong tide of battle ! Kaled ! — ay, 
A gallant name ! How heard you ? 

Urb. Nay, it seemed 
As if a breeze first bore the rumor in. 
I know not how it rose ; but now it comes 
Like fearful truth, and we were sad, thus left 
Hopeless of aid or counsel — till we saw 

Rai. {hastily.) You have my brother here ? 

Urb. {with embarrassment.) We have ; but 
he 

Rai. But he — but he ! — Aymer de Chatillon 
The fiery knight — the very soul o' the field — 
Rushing on danger with the joyous step 
Of a hunter o'er the hills ! — is that a tone 
Wherewith to speak of him ? I heard a tale — 
If it be true — nay, tell me ! 

Urb. He is here ; 
Ask him to tell thee 

Rai. If that tale be true 

[He turns suddenly to his companion*. 
— Follow me, give the noble dead his rites, 
And we will have our day of vengeance yet, 
Soldiers and friends ! [Exeunt omnes. 

Scene II. — A Hall of Oriental architecture, open* 
ing upon gardens. A fountain in the centre. 

Aymer de Chatillon, Moraima. 

Mor. {bending over a couch 07i tchich her brother 
is sleeping.) 
He sleeps so calmly now ; the soft wind here 
Brings in such lulling sounds ! Nay, think vou 
not 



DE CHATILLOX ; OE, THE CRUSADERS. 



36? 



rhis slumber will restore liim ? See you nc^ 
His cheek's faint glow ? 

Aym. {turning away.) It was my sword which 
gave 
The wound he dies from ! 

Mjr. Dies from ! say not so ! 
The orother of my childhood and my youth, 
My heart's first friend! — O, I have been too 

weak — 
I have delayed too long ! Ee could not sue ; 
He bade me urge the prayer he would not 

speak, 
And I withheld it ! Christian, set us free ! 
You have been gentle with us ; 'tis the weight, 
The bitter feeling, of captivity 
Which preys upon his life. 

Aym. You would go hence ? 

Mor. For his sake. 

Aym. You would leave me ! 'Tis too late ! 
You see it not, you know not, that your voice 
Hath power in its low mournfulness to shake 
Vline inmost soul ? — that you but look on me, 
Alth the soft darkness of your earnest eyes, 
^Lud bid the world fade from me, and call up 
A. thousand passionate dreams, which wrap my 

life 
A-s with a troubled cloud ? The very sound 
Of your light step hath made my heart o'erflow. 
Even unto aching, with the sudden gush 
Of its deep tenderness. You know it not ! 
- Moraima ! speak to me ! 

Mor. {coveriiig herself with her veil.) I can but 
weep. 
Is it even so ? — this love was born for tears ! 
Aymer ! I can but weep. 

[Going to leave him — he detains her. 

Aym. Hear me, yet hear me ! I was reared in 
arms ; 
And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts 
Of bannered armies — these were joy to me. 
Enough of joy ! TiU you ! — I looked on you ; 
We met where swords were flashing, and the 

light 
Of burning towers glared wildly on the slain — 
And then 

Mor. {hurriedly.) Yes ! then you saved me ! 

Aym. Then I knew, 
At once, what springs of deeper happiness 
Lay far within my soul ; and they burst forth 
Troubled and dashed with fear — yet sweet ! I 

loved ! 
Moramia ! leave me not ! 

Mor. Eor us to love ! — 
0, is't not taking Sorrow to our hearts, 
Binding her there ? I know not what I say ! 



How shall I look upon my brother ? H;u-k ! 
Did he not call ? [She goes up ic the couch- 

Aym. Am I beloved ? She wept 
With a full heart ! I am ! And such deep joj 
Is found on earth ! If I should lose her now ! 

If aught [An attendant enteri 

{To attenda)d.) You seek me ! — why is this? 

Att. My lord. 
Your brother and his knights 

Aym. Here ! are they here ? 
The knights — my brother, saidst thou ? 

Att. Yes, my lord. 
And he would speak with you. 

Aym. I see — I know 

( To attendant.) Leave me ! I know why he ii 

come ; 'tis vain — 
They shall not part us ! 

[Looking back on Moraima as he goes out. 
What a silent grace 
Floats round her form ! They shall not part 
us — no ! [Exit. — Scene closes. 

Scene HI. — A square of the city — a church in 
the background. 

Rainieb. de Chatillon. 

Rai. {walking to and fro impatiently.) 
And now, too ! now ! My father unavenged, 
Our holy places threatened, every heart 
Tasked to its strength ! A knight of Palestine 
Noio to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul 
In lovelorn sighs ; and for an infidel ! 
— Will he lift up his eyes to look on m.ine ? 
WiU he not hush ! 

Aymer enters. They look on each other for a 
moment without speaking. 

Rai. {suppressing his emotion.) So brothers 
meet I You know 
Wherefore I come ? 

Aym. It cannot be ; 'tis vain. 
Tell me not of it ! 

Rai. How ! you have not heard ? 

[ Turning from him. 
He hath so shut the world out with his dreams^ 
The tidings have not reached him ! or perchanca 
Have been forgotten ! You have captives here \ 

Aym. {hurriedly.) Yes, mine ! my own — woB 
by the right of arms ! 
You dare not question it. 

Rai. A prince, they say. 
And his fair sister : — is the maid so fair ? 

Aym. {turning suddenly tipon him.) 
What, you would see ^'''r ? 

Rai. {scornfully.^ i — O, yes ! to queD 



264 



DE CIIATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Vly sotil's deep yearnings ! Let me look on 

swords. 
Boy, boy ! recall yourself ! — I come to you 
With the last blessing of our father ! 

Aym. Last ! 
His last ! — how mean you ? Is he 

Rai. Dead? — j'es ! dead. 
He died upon my breast. 

Aym. {with the deepest emotion.) And I was 
here ! 
Dead ! — and upon your breast ! You closed his 

eyes — 
While I — he spoke of me ? 

Rai. With such deep love ! 
He ever loved you most ! His spirit seemed 
To linger for your coming. 

Aym. What ! he thought 
That I was on my way ! He looked for me ? 
And I 

Rai. You came not ! I had sent to you, 
And told you he was wounded. 

Aym. Yes — but not — 
Not mortally ! 

Rai. 'Twas not that outward wound — 
That might have closed : and yet he surely 

thought 
That you would come to him ! He called on you 
When his thoughts wandered ! Ay, the very 

night, 
The very hour he died, some hasty step 
Entered his chamber — and he raised his head, 
With a faint lightning in his eyes, and asked 
If it were yours ! That hope's brief moment 



He sank then. 

Aym. (throioing himself upon his brother s neck.) 
Brother ! take me to his grave, 
That I may kneel there, till my burning tears, 
With the strong passion of repentant love, 
Wring forth a voice to pardon me ! 

Rai. You weep ! 
Tears for the garlands on a maiden's grave ! 
You know not how he died ! 

Aym. Not of his wound ? 

Rai. His wound ! — it is the silent spirit's 
w.^ and, 
We cannot reai^ to heal ! One burning thought 
Preyed on his heart. 

Aym. Not — not — he had not heard — 
He blessed me, Rainier ? 

Rai. Have you flung away 
Vour birthright ? Yes ! he blessed you ! — but 
he died 
He whose lame stood for Victory's — he 
believed 



The ancient honor from his gray head fallen. 
And died — he died of shame ! 

Aym. What feverish dream 

Rai. {vehemently.) Was it not lost, the war- 
rior's latest field, 
The noble city held for Palestine 
Taken — the Cross laid low ? I came too l&te 
To turn the tide of that disastrous fight, 
But not to rescue him. We bore him thence 
Wounded, upon his shield 

Aym. And I was here ! 

Rai. He cast one look back on his burning 
towers. 
Then threw the red sw^ord of a hundred fields 
To the earth — and hid his face ! I knew, I kne^w 
His heart was broken ! Such a death for him ! 
— The wasting — the sick loathing of the sun — 
Let the foe's charger trample out my life, 
Let me not die of shame ! But we will have 

Aym. {grasping his hand eagerly.) Yes ! ven- 
geance ! 

Rai. Vengeance ! By the dying once. 
And once before the dead, and yet once more 
Alone with heaven's bright stars, I took that 

vow 
For both his sons ! Think of it, when the nigh 
Is dark around you, and in festive halls 
Keep your soul hushed, and think of it ! 

A low Chant of female voices, heard from behina 
the scenes. 

Fallen is the flower of Islam's race ! 

Break ye the lance he bore. 
And loose his war steed from its place : 
He is no more — 
Single voice. No more ! 

Weep for him mother, sister, bride ! 
He died, with all his fame — 
Single voice. He died ! 

Aym. {Poi7iting to a palace, and eagerly speak- 
hig to his atte7idant, who enters.) 
Came it not thence ? Rudolf, w^hat sounds are 
these ? 
Att. The Moslem prince, your captive -- be 
is dead : 
It is the mourners' wail for him. 

Aym. And she — 
His sisier — heard you — did they say she wept • 

'Hurrying away 

Rai. {indignantly.) All the deep-stirring tones 

of honor's voice 

In a moment silenced ! [Solemn military music. 

{A funeral procession, with priests, S^c, crosses thi 

background to enter the church.) 

Rai. {following Aymeb anrf grasping his arm,) 



DE CHATILLOX ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



36« 



A.jTner ! there — look there ! 
It is your father's bier ! 

Ayti»- {returning.) He blessed me, Rainier ? 
You heard him bless me ? Yes ! you closed his 

eyes : 
He looked for me in vain ! 

[He goes to the bier, and bends over it, cov- 
tring his face. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — A room in the Citadel. 

EIainier, Aymer, Knights, assembled in Council. 

A Knight. What ! with our weary and dis- 
tracted bands 
To dare another field ! Nay, give them rest. 
Rai. (impatiently.) Rest ! and that sleepless 

thought 

Knight. These walls have strength 
To baffle siege. Let the foe gird us in — 
We must wait aid ; our soldiers must forget 
That last disastrous day. 

Rai. {coming forward.) K they forget it, in 
the combat's press 
May their spears fail them ! 

Knight. Yet, bethink thee, chief. 

Hai. When I forget it how ! you see not, 

knights ! 
^Vhence we must now draw strength. Send 

down your thoughts 
Into the veiT" depths of grief and shame. 
And bring back courage thence! To talk of 

rest ! 
How do they rest, unburied on their field. 
Our brethren slain by Gaza ? Had we time 
To give them funeral rites ? and ask we now 
Time to forget their fall ? My father died — 
I cannot speak of him ! What ! and forget 
The infidel's fierce trampling o'er our dead ? 
Forget his scornful shout ? Give battle now. 
While the thought lives as fire lives ! — there 

lies strength ! 
Hold the dark memory fast ! Now, now — this 

hour ! 
— Aymer, you do not speak ! 

Aym. {starting.) Have I not said ? 
Battle ! — yes, give us battle ! — room to pour 
The troubled spirit forth upon the winds, 
With the trumpet's ringing blast ! Way for re- 
morse ! 
Free way for vengeance ! 
AU the Knights. Arm ! Heaven wills it so ! 
Rai. Gather your forces to the western gate ! 
i.et none forget that day ! Our field was lost, 



Our city's strength laid low — one mighty heart 
Broken ! Let none forget it ! [Exeunt 

Scene II. — Garden of a Palace. 

MORAIMA. 

Mor. Yes ! his last look — my brother'^ djing 
look 
Reproached me as it faded from his face. 
And I deserved it ! Had I not given way 
To the wild guilty pleadings of my heart, 
I might have won his freedom ! Now, 'tis pfjuc 
He is free now ! 

Aymer enters, armed as for battle. 

Aymer ! you look so changed ! 

Aym. Changed ! — it may be A storm o' the 
soul goes by 
Not like a breeze ! There's such a fearful grasp 
Fixed on my heart ! Speak to me — lull remorse I 
Bid me farewell ! 

Mor. Yes ! it must be farewell ! 
No other word but that. 

Aym. No other word ! 
The passionate, burning words that I could pour 
From my heart's depths ! 'Tie madne&a ' What 

have I 
To do with love ? I see it all — the mist 
Is gone — the bright mist gone ! I see the woe, 
The ruin, the despair ! And yet I love. 
Love wildly, fatally ! But ttieak to me ! 
Fill all my soul once more with reckless joy ! 
That blessed voice again ! 

Mor. Why, why is this ? 
O, send me to my father ! We must part. 

Aym. Part ! — yes, I know it all ! I could 
not go 
Till I had seen you ! Give me one farewell, 
The last — perchance the last ! — but one fare- 
well, 
Whose mournful music I may take with me 
Through tumult, horror, death ! 

[A distant sound of trumpets. 

Mor. {starting.) You go to battle ! 

Aym. Hear you not that sound ? 
Yes ! I go there, where dark and stormy thoughts 
Find their free path ! 

Mor. Aymer ! who leads the foe ? 
{Confused.) I meant — I mean — my permle ' 

Who is he. 
My people's leader ? 

Aym. Kaled. {Looking at her suspiciously." 
How ! you seem — 
The name disturbs you ! 

Mor. Mv last brother's name I 



566 



DE CHATILLOX : OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Aym. Fear not my sword for him ! 

Mor. {turning arcarj.) If they should meet ! 
y know the vow he made. 

{To Aymer.) If thou — if thoic 
Shouldst fall ! 

A^jm. Moraima ! then your blessed tears 
Would flow for me ? then you would weep for me ? 

Mor. I must weep tears of very shame ; and 
yet — 
1 — if your words have been love's OAvn true 

words, 
Grant me one boon ! [Trumpet sounds again. 

Aym. Hark ! I must hence. A boon ! 
Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart, 
AS the last token, it may be, of love 
So deep and sad. 

Mor. Pledge me your knightly faith ! 

Aym. My knightly faith, my life, my honor 
— all, 
I pledge thee all to grant it ! 

Mor. Then, to-day. 
Go not this day to battle ! He is there, 
My brother Kaled ! 

Aym. {wildly.) Have I flung my sword 
Down to dishonor ? 

[Going to leave her — she detains him. 

Mor. O, your name hath stirred 
His soul amidst his tents, and he had vowed, 
liOng ere we met, to cross his sword -with yours. 
Till one or both should faU. There hath been 

death. 
Since then, amongst us ; he will seek revenge. 
And his revenge — forgive me ! — O, forgive, 
— I could not bear that thought ! 

Aym. Now must the glance 
Of a brave man strike me to the very dust ! 
Ay, this is shame. [Covering his face. 

{Turning wildly to Moraima.) 
You scorn me too ? Away ! — She does not know 
What she hath done ! [Rushes out. 

Scene III. — Before a gateway within the city. 
Rainier, Herman, Knights, Men-at-arms, ^c. 
Her. 'Tis past the hour. 

Rai. {looking out anxiously.) Away ! 'tis not 
che hour — 
Not yet ! When was the battle's hour delayed 
For a C/'hatillon ? We mus1;have come too soon ! 
AH are not here. 
Her. Yes, all ! 
Rai, They came too soon. 

[Going up to the knights. 
C!ouci, De Foix, Du Mornay — here, all here ! 
ind he the last ! my brother ! 

{To a Soldier.) Where's your lord ! 



( Turning au-ay.) Why should I ask, -when tha? 
fair Infidel 

aymer enter i. 
The Saracen at our gates — and you the last ! 
Come on ! remember all your fame ! 

Aym. {coming forward in great agitation.) My 
fame ! 

— VHxy did you save me from the Paynira' 

sword, 
In my first battle ? 

Rai. What wild words are these ? 

Aym. You should have let me perish then- 
yes, then I 
Go to your field and leave me ! 

Knights, {thronging round him.) Leave you ! 

Rai. Aymer ! 
Was it your voice ? 

Aym. Now talk to me of fame ! 
Tell me of all my warlike ancestors, 
And of my father's death — that bitter death \ 
Never did pilgrim for the fountains thirst 
As I for this day's vengeance ! To your field ! 

— I may not go ! 

Rai. {turning from, him.) The name his rac« 
hath borne 
Through a thousand battles — lost ! 

{Returning to Aymer.) A Chatillon^ 
Will you live and wed dishonor ? 

Aym. {covering his face.) Let the grave 
Take me and cover me ! I must go down 
To its rest without my sword ! 

Rai. There's some dark speU upon hJiiD 
Aymer, bi other ! 
Let me not die of shame ! He that died so 
Turned sickening from the sun ! 
Aym. Where should I turn ? 

[Going upzabruptly to the knights. 
Herman — Du Mornay ! ye have stood with me 
r the battle's front — ye know me ! ye have seen 
The fiery joy of danger bear me on 
As wind the arrow ! Leave me now — 'tis past ! 
Rai. {with bitterness.) He comes from her! — 
the infidel hath smiled, 
Doubtless, for this. 

Aym. I should have been to-day 
Where shafts fly thickest, and the crossing swords 
Cacnot flash out for blood ! — Hark ! you are 
called ! 
'Wild Turkish music heard without. Tht 
background of the scene becomes more atu. 
more crowded with armed men. 
Lay lance in rest ! — wave, noble banners ! 
wave ! [Throwing down his stoord 

Go from me ! — leave the fallen ! 



BE CHATII.LOX; OR, THE CRTJSADET^8. 



ff>^ 



Her. Nay, but the cause ? 
Tell us the cause ! 

Rai. {approaching him iiidignantly.) 
Your sword — your crested helm 
Ajid your knight's mantle — cast them down ! 

your name 
Is in the dust ! — our father's name ! The 

cause ? 
~ Tell it not, tell it not ! 

[^Turning to the soldiers a7id waving his hand. 
Sound, trumpets ! sound ! 
On, lances ! for the Cross ! 

[Military music. As the knights march 
out, he looks back at Aymer. 

I would not now 
Call back my noble father from the dead, 
K I could with but a breath ! — Sound, trum- 
pets, sound ! 

[ Exeunt knights and soldiers. 
Aym. "Why should I bear this shame ? 'tis not 

too late ! 
\Rushing after them, he suddenly checks himself. 
My faith ! my knightly faith pledged to my fall ! 

[Exit. 

Scene IV. — Before a Church. 

Groups of Citizens passing to and fro. Ayjiee, 
standiiig against one of the pillars of the church 
in the background, and leaning on his sword. 
\st Cit. {to 2d. ) From the walls, how goes the 

battle ? 
2d Cit. Well, aU well. 
Praise to the saints ! I saw De Chatillon 
Fighting, as if upon his single arm 
The fate o' the day were set. 

Zd Cit. vShame light on those 
rhat strike not with him in their place ! 

\st Cit. You mean 
His brother ? Ay, is't not a fearful thing 
That one of such a race — a brave one too — 
Should have thus fallen ? 

2d Cit. They say the captive girl 
Whom he so loved, hath won him from his faith 
Tc the vile Paynim creed. 
A}fm. {suddenly coming forward.) Who dares 
say tkat f 
Bhow me who dares say that ! 

f They shrink back — he laughs scornfully. 
Ha ! ha ! ye thought 
To play with a sleeper's name ! — to make your 

mirth 
As low-born men sit by a tomb, and jest 
O'ei a dead warrior ! Where's the slanderer ? 
Speak! 



A Citizen enters hastily. 

Cit. Haste to the walls ! De Chatillon halt 
slain 
The Paynim chief ! [They all go out 

Aym. Why should they shrink r I, I should 
ask the night 
To cover me ! I that have flung my name 
Away to scorn ! Hush ! am I not alone ? 

[Listening eagerly. 
There's a voice calling me — a voice i' the air — 
My father's! — 'Twas my father's! Are the 

dead. 
Unseen, yet with us ? Fearful ! 
{Loud shouts without; he rushes forward exultingly.) 

'Tis the shout 
Of victory ! We have triumphed ! - Wei my 

place 
Is 'midst the fallen ! 

[Music heard, which approaches, sxcelling tntc 
a triumphant march. Knights enter it* 
procession, with banners, torch bearers, &;c 
The gates of the church are thrown open 
and the altar, tombs, S^c, withiti, ai'e see7i il- 
luminated. Knights pass over, and enls-. 
the church. One of them takes a torch, and 
lifts it to Aymer's face in passing. He 
strikes it doiV7i with a sword; then^ seeing 
Rainier approach, drops the stcord, and 
covers his face. 
Aym. {grasping Rainier by the manile, as he is 
about to pass.) 
Brother ! forsake me not I 

Rai. {suddenly drawing his sword, and showing 
it him.) My sword is red 
With victory and revenge ! Look — dyed tc 
the hilt ! 

— We fought — and where were you ? 
Aym. Forsake me not ! 

Rai. {pointing with his sword to the tombs with- 
in the church.) 
Those are proud tombs ! The dead, the gloriou;s 

dead. 
Think you they sleep, and know not of their som 
In the mysterious grave ? We laid him there ! 

— Before the ashes of your father, speak ' 
Have you abjured your faith ? 

Aym. {indignantly.) Your name is mine — 
your blood — and you ask this ! 
Wake him to hear me answer ! — Have you 
No! 

— You have not dared to think it. 

[Breaks from him, and goes out 
Rai. {entering the church, and bending over on-, 
of the tombs.) Not yet k»8t ' 



368 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS 



Not yet all lost ! He shall be thine again ! 
Bo shalt thou sleep in peace. 

Music and Chorus of Voices from the Church. 
Praise, praise to Heaven! 
Bing of the conquered field, the Paynim flying ; 
Light up the shrines, and bid the banners wave ! 
Bing of the warrior for the red cross dying ; 
Chant a proud requiem o'er his holy grave ! 
Praise, praise to Heaven ! 
Praise ! — lift the song through night's resound- 
ing sky ! 
Peace to the valiant for the Cross that die ! 
Sleep soft, ye brave ! 

ACT in. 

Scene I. — A platform before the Citadel. 
Kniffhts enteri7ig. 

Her. {to one of the Knights.^ You would plead 
for him ? 

Knight. Nay, remember all 
His past renown. 

Her. I had a friend in youth — 
This Aymer's father had him shamed for less 
Than his son's fault — far less. 
We reust accuse him ; he must have his shield 
Re-\ttsed — his name degraded. 

Knight. He might yet — 

All the Knights. Must his shame cleave to us f 
We cast him forth — 
We will not bear it. 

Rainier enters. 

Rai. Knights ! ye speak of him — 
My brother — was't not so ? All silent ! Nay, 
Give your thoughts breath. What said ye ? 

Her. That his name 
Must be degraded. 

Bai. Silence ! ye disturb 
The dead. Thou hear'st, my father ! 

[Goifig lip indignantly to the Knights. 
Which of ye 
Shall first accuse him ? He, whose bold step won 
The breach at Ascalon ere Aymer's step, 
Let him speak first I 
He that plunged deeper through the stormy 

fight, 
Thence to redeem the banner of the Cross, 
On Cairo's plain, let him speak fijst ! Or he 
Whose sword burst swifter o'er the Saracen, 
r the rescue of our king, by Jordan's waves — 
r say, let him speak first ! 

Her. Is he not an apostate ? 

Rai. No, no, no ! 



If he were that, had my life's blooa that taint, 
This hand should pour it out. He is not that. 
Her. Not yet. 

Rai. Nor yet, nor ever ! Let me die 
In a lost battle first ! 

Her. Hath he let go 
Name, kindred, honor, for an infidel, 
And will he grasp his faith ? 

Rai. {after a gloomy pause.') That which bean 
poison — should it not be crushed ? 
What though the M^eed look lovely ? 

[Suddenly addressing Du Morn AY. 
You have seen 
My native halls, Du Mornay, far away 
In Languedoc ? 

Du Mor. I was your father's friend — 
I knew them well. 

Rai. {thoughtfully.) The weight of gloom that 
hangs — 
The very banners seem to droop with it — 
O'er some of those old rooms ! Were we there 

now. 
With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries, 

Why, I could tell you 

\_Coming closer to Du Mornay. 
There's a dark-red spot 
Grained in the floor of one : you know the tale ? 
Du Mor. I may have heard it by the winter 
fires, 

— Now 'tis of things gone by. 

Rai. {turning from him displeased.) Sn(.b. je- 
gends give 
Some minds a deeper tone. 

( To Herman.) If you had heard 

That tale i' the shadowy tower 

Her. Nay, tell it now ! 

Rai. They say the place is haunted — moan- 
ing sounds 
Come thence at midnight — sounds of woman 'i 
voice. 

Her. And you believe 

Rai. I but believe the deed 
Done there of old. I had an ancestor — 
Bertrand, the lion chief — whose son went forth 
(A younger son — I am not of his line) 
To the wars of Palestine. He fought there wel, 

— Ay, all his race were brave ; but he returned 
And with a Paynim bride. 

Her. The recreant ! — say. 
How bore your ancestor ? 

Rai. Well may you think 
It chafed him ; but he bore it, for the love 
Of that fair son, the child of his old age. 
He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel 
A place in liis own halls. 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



3(3U 



Her. But did this last ? 

Rai. How should it last ? Again the trumpet 
blew, 
A.nd men were summoned from their homes to 

guard 
The city of the Cross. But he seemed cold — 
rhat youth. He shunned his father's eye, and 

took 
No armor from the walls. 

Her. Had he then fellen ? 
Was his faith wavering ? 
Rat. So the father feared. 

Eer. If / had been that father 

Rai. Ay, you come 
'^f an honored lineage. What would you have 
done ? 
Her. Nay, what did he ? 
Rai. What dixd isxi \:n chief ? 

[Turning to Du Mornay. 
Why, thoii, hast seen the very spot of blood 
On the dark floor ! He slew the Paynim bride. 
Was it not well ? {He looks at them attentively^ 
and as he goes out exclaims — ) 

My brother must not fall ! 

Scene II. — A deserted Turkish burying ground 
in the city — tombs and stones overthrown — the 
xoJiole shaded by dark cypress trees. 

Mor. (leaning over a monumental pillar, which 
has been lately raised.) 
He is at rest ; — and I ! — is there no power 
In grief to win forgiveness from the dead ? 
When shall I rest ? Hark! a step — Aymer'sstep! 
The thrilling sound ! 

[She shrinks back as reproaching herself. 
To feel that joy even here ! 
Brother ! O, pardon me ! 

Rai. {entering, and slowly looking round.) 
A gloomy scene ! 

A place for Is she not an infidel ? 

Who shall dare cal? it murder ? 

[He advances to her slowly, and looks at her 
She is fair — 
The deeper cause ! Maid, have you thought of 

death 
'Midst these old tombs ? 

Mor. {shrinking from him fearfully.) This is 

my brother's grave. 
Rai. Thy brother's ! That a warrior's grave 
had closed 
O'er mine — the free and noble knight he was ! 
Ay, that the desert sands had shrouded him 
Before he looked on thee ! 
Mor If you are his — 
417 



If Aymer's brother: — though your brow be darki 
I may not fear you ! 

Rai. No ? why, thou shouldst fear 
The very dust o' the mouldering sepulchre. 
If it had lived, and borne his name on earth 1 
Hear'st thou? — that dust hath stirred, *n8 

found a voice, 
And said that thou must die ! 

Mor. {clinging to the pillar as he approacJuu ^ 
Be with me, Heaven ! 
You will not murder me ? 

Rai. {turning aicay.) A goodly word 
To join with a warrior's name ! — a sound to mako 
Men's flesh creep. What ! — for Paynim blood 
Did he stand faltering thus — my ancestor — 
In that old tower ? 

[He again approaches her — she falls on he* 
knees. 
Mor. So young, and thus to die ! 
Mercy — have mercy ! In your own far land 
If there be love that weeps and watches fo^ you, 
And follows you with prayer — even by tl at love 
Spare me — for it is woman's ! If light steps 
Have bounded there to meet you, cling' r.g arms 
Hung on your neck, fond tears o'erflow»:d your 

cheek. 
Think upon those that loved you thus, for thua 
Doth woman love ! and spare me ! — think on 

them ! 
They, too, may yet need mercy ! Aymer, Aymer ! 
Wilt thou not hear and aid me ? 

Rai. (starting.') There's a name 
To bring back strength ! Shall I not strike to 
save 

His honor and his life ? Were his life all 

Mor. To save his life and honor ! — will my 

death 

[She rises and stands before him, covering her 
face hurriedly. 
Do it with one stroke ! I may not live for him ! 
Rai. (ivith surprise.) A woman meet death 

thus! 
Mor. (xmcoveri7ig her eyes.) Yet one thiiifj; 
more — 
I have sisters and a father. Christian knight 1 
0» by your mother's memory, let them know 
I died with a name unstained. 
Rai. (softened and surprised.) 
And such high thoughts from her! — an infidel ! 
And she named my mother ! — Once in early 

youth 
From the wild waves I snatched a woman's life ; 
My mother blessed me for it (slowly dropping hii 

dagger) — even with tears 
She blessed me. Stay, are there no other means ' 



570 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



{Suddenly recollecting himself.^ Follow me, maid- 
en ! Fear not now. 

Mor. But he 

But Aymer — 
Rai. {sternly.') Wouldst thou perish ? Name 
him not ! — 
Look not as if thou wouldst ! Think' st thou 

dark thoughts 
Are blown away like dewdrops ? or I, like him, 
A leaf to shake and turn i' the changing wind ? 
Follow me, and beware ! 

[She bends over the tomb for a momeiit, and 
follows him. 

AfMER enters, and sloicly comes forward from the 
background. 

Aym. For th<* last time — yes ! it must be the 
last! 
Earth and heaven saj - the last ! The very 

dead 
Rise up to part us ! But otie look — and then 
She must go hence forever ! Will she weep ? 
It had been little to have died for her — 
I have borne shame. 

She shall know all ! Moraima ! Said they not 
She would be found here at her brother's grave ? 
Where should she go ? Moraima ! There's the 

print 
Of her step — what gleams beside it ? 
{Seeiiig the dagger, he takes it up.) Ha! men work 
Dark deeds with things like this ! 

[Looking wildly and anxiously around. 
I see no — blood ! 
[Looking at the dagger. 
Stained ! — it may be from battle ; 'tis not — wet. 
[Looks round, intently listening ; then again 
examines the spot. 
Ha ! what is this ? another step in the grass ! — 
Hers and another's step ! 

[He rushes into the cypress grove. 

Scene III. — A hall in the citadel, hung with arms 
and banners. 

Rainier, Herman — Knights in the background^ 
laying aside their armor- 

Her. {coming forward and speaking hurriedly.) 
Is it done ? Have you done it ? 

Rai. {with disgust.) What ! you thirst 
For blood so deeply ? 

Her. {indignantly.) Have you struck, and saved 
The honor of your house ? 

Rai. {thoughtfully to himself.) The light i' the 
80ul 
Ib sucl a waveiing thing ! Have I done well r 



{To Herman.^ 
Ask me not ! Never shall thej meet again. 
Is't not enough ? 

Aymer e7iters hurriedly with the dagger^ and goet 
up with it to several of the hiights, who begin ta 
gather round the front. 

Aym. Whose is this dagger ? 

Rai. {coining fonoard and taking it.) Mine. 

Aym. Yours ! yours ! — and know you 

where 

Rai. {about to sheathe it, but stopping.) O, yoi 
do well 
So to remind me ! Yes ! it must have lain 
In the Moslem burial ground — and that vile 

dust — 
Hence with it ! 'tis defiled. [ Throws it from him 

Aym- If such a deed 

Brother ! where is she ? 

Rai. Who ? — what knight hath lost 
A lady love ? 

Aym. Could he speak thus, and wear 

That scornful calm, if No ! he is not calm. 

What have you done ? 

Rai. {aside.) Yes ! she shall die to him ! 
Aym. {grasping his arm.) What have you 

done ? — speak ! 
Rai. You should know the tale 
Of our dark ancestor, the Lion Chief, 
And his son's bride. 

Ayyn. ^lan ! man ! you murdered her ! 

^Sinking back. 
It grows so dark around me ! She is dead ! 
( Wildly.) I'll not believe it ! No ! she never 

looked 
Like what could die ! [Goes up to his brother. 

If you have done that deed 

Rai. {sternly.) If I have done it, I have flung 
off shame 
From my brave father's house ! 

Aym. {i7i a low voice to himself.) 
So young, and dead ! — because I loved her — 
dead ! 

(To Rainier.) 
Where is she, murderer ? Let me see her face 
You think to hide it with the dust ! — ha ! ha ! 
The dust to cover her ! We'll mock you still : 
If I call her back, she'll come ! Where is she ? — 

speak ! 
Now, by my father's tomb ! but I am calm. 
Rai. Never more hope to see her ! 
Aym. Never more ! 

[Sitting down on the grourM 
I loved her, so she perished ! — All the earth 
Hath not another voice to reach my soul, 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



N'ow hers is silent ! Never, never more ! 

If she had but said farewell ! — (Bewildered.) 

It grows so dark ! 
This is some fearful dream. "When the morn 

comes I shall wake. 
— My life's bright hours are done ! 
Eai. I must be firm. 

[Takes a ba7i7ier from 'he wall, and brings it 
to Atmer. 
Have you forgotten this f We thought it lost, 
But it rose proudly wavinrj o'er the fight 
In a warrior's hand again ! Yours, Aymer ! 



yours 



Brother ! redeem your fame ! 

Aym. {putting it from him.) The worthless 
thing ! 
Fame ! She is dead ! — give a king's robe to one 
Stretched on the rack ! Hence with your 

pageantries 
Down to the dust ! 

Her. The banner of the Cross ! 
Shame on the recreant ! Cast him from us ! 

Rai Boy! 
Degenerate boy ! Here, with the trophies won 
By the sainted chiefs of old in Paynim"^var 
Above you and around ; the very air, 
When it but shakes their armor on the walls, 
Murmuring of glorious deeds ; to sit and weep 
Here for an Infidel ! My father's son, 
Shame ! shame ! deep shame ! 

Knights. Aymer de Chatillon ! 
Go from us, leave us ! 

Aym. {starting up. ) Leave you ! what ! ye 
thought 
That I would stay to breathe the air you 

breathe — 
And fight by you ! Murderers ! I burst aU ties ! 
[ Throws his sword on the ground before them. 
Theie's not a thing of the desert haK so free ! 

{To Rainiek.) 
You have no brother ! Live to need the love 
Of a human heart, and steep your soul in fame 
To still its restless yearnings ! Die alone ! 
'Midst all your pomps and trophies — die alone ! 
[Going out, he suddenly returns. 
Did she not call on me to succor her ? 
Kneel to you — plead for life ? The Voice of 

Blood 
Follow you to your grave. [Exit. 

Rai. {with emotio7i.) Alas ! my brother ! 
The time hath been, when in the face of Death 
I have bid him leave me, and he w^ould not ! 

{Turning to the Knights.) Knights ! 

The Soldan marches for Jerusalem — 
VV€ 11 meet him on the way. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emit 
Melech, Sadi, Soldiers. 

Mel. Yes ! he I mean — Rainier de Chatilloj 
Go, send swift riders o'er the mountains forth, 
And through the deserts, to proclaim the price 
I set upon his life ! 

Sadi. Thou gav'st the word 
Before ; it hath been done — they are gone forth 

Mel. Would that my soul could wing them 
Didst thou heed 
To say his life ? I'll have my own revenge ! 
Yes ! I would save him from another's hand I 
Thou said'st he must be brought alive ? 

Sadi. 1 heard 
Thy will, and I obeyed. 

Mel. He slew my son — 
That was in battle — but to shed her blood ! 
My child Moraima's ! Could he see and strikl 

her? 
A Christian see her face, too ! From my hous« 
The crown is gone ! Who brought the talc > 

Sadi. A slave 
Of your late son's, escaped. 

Mel. Have I a son 
Left ? speak, the slave of w^hich ? Kaled is gone — 
And Octar gone — both, both are fallen — 
Both my young stately trees, and she mj 

flower — 
No hand but mine shall be upon him, none ! — 
[A sound of festive music withmtt 
What mean they there ? [A7i attenda7it e7iter9 

Att. Tidings of joy, my chief! 

3Iel. Joy ! — is the Christian taken ? 

MoRAiMA enters, a7id th7'ows herself into his arm$, 

Mor. Father ! Father ! 
I did not think this world had yet so much 
Of aught like happiness ! 

Mel. My owti fair child ! 
Is it on thee I look indeed, my child ? 

[ Tur7ii?ig to attendants 
Away, there ! — gaze not on us ! Do I hold 
Thee in my arms ! They told me thou wert slain 
Rainier de Chatillon, they said 

Mor. {hu7-riedly) O, no ! 
'Twas he that sent thee back thy child, my fathv- 

Mel. He ! why, his brother Aymer still refused 
A monarch's ransom for thee ! 

Mor. {with a mome7ito7-y delight.) Didhis thus J 
[Sudde7ily checking herself 
1 — Yes ! I knew well ! O, do not speak of hiir 



72 



DE CHATILLOX ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Mel. What ! hath he wronged thee ? Thou 
hast suffered much 
Amongst these Christians! Thou art changed, 

my child. 
There's a dim shadow in thine eye, where 

once 

But they shall pay me back for all thy tears 
With their best blood. 

MoY, {alarmed.) Father ! not so, not so ! 
Xhey still were gentle with me. But I sat 
And watched beside my dying brother's couch 
Through many days : and I have wept since 

then — 
Wept much. 

Mel. Thy dying brother's couch ! — yes, thou 
Wert ever true and kind. 

Mor. {covering her face.) O, praise me not ! 
Look gently on me, or I sink to earth ; 
Not thus ! 

^el. No praise ! thou'rt faint, my child, and 
worn : 

Th J length of way hath 

Mor. [eagerly.) Yes ! the way was long, 
The desert's wind breathed o'er me. Could I 
rest? 
Mel. Yes ! thou shalt rest within thy father's 
tent. 
Follow me, gentle child ! Thou look'st so 
changed. 
Mor. {hurriedly.) The weary way, — the des- 
ert's burning wind 

[Layi?ig her hand on him as she goes out. 
Think thou no evil of those Christians, father ! — 
They were still kind. 

Scene II. — Before a Fortress amongst Rocks, 
with a Desert beyond — Military Music. 

Rainier de Chatillon — K- ights and Soldiers. 

Rai. They speak of truce ? 

The Knights. Even so. Of trui.e betAveen 
The Soldan and our King. 

Rai. Let him who fears 
Lest the close helm should wear his locks away, 
Cry •* truce," and cast it off. I have no will 
To change mine armor for a masker's robe. 
And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there ! 
Warriors and brethren ! hear. I own no truce — 
I hold my life but as a weapon now 
Against the infidel ! He shall not reap 
His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray 
To his false gods — no ! save by trembling stealth, 
SVhilst I can grasp a sword! Wherefore, noble 

friends, 
Th -k not of truce with me ! — b\it think to quaff 



Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to re*< 
In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds 
Barded in the hall beside you. Now turn back, 
[lie throws a spear on the ground before them 
Ye that are weary of your armor's load : 
Pass o'er the spear, away I 

They all shout. A Chatillon ! 
We'U follow thee — all ! aU ! 
Rai. A soldier's thanks ! 

[Turns aioay from them agitated 
There's one face gone, and that a brother's ! 

{Aloud.) War ! — 
War to the Paynim — war ! March and set uf 
On our stronghold the banner of the Cross, 
Never to sink ! 

[Trumpets sound. They march on, winding 
through the rocks with military music.^ 

Enter Gaston, an aged vassal of Rainier's, as an 
armed follower — Rainier addresses him. 

You come at last ! And she — where left yon 

her ? 
The Paynim maid ? 

Gas. I found her guides, my lord, 
Of her own race, and left her on the way 
To reach her father's tents, 

Rai. Speak low ! — the tale 
Must rest with us. It must be thought she died. 
I can trust you. 

Gas. Your father trusted me. 

Rai. He did, he did ! — my father ! You hava 
been 
Long absent, and you bring a troubled eye 
Back with you. Gaston ! heard you aught of 
him f 

Gas. Whom means my lord ? 

Rai. {impatiently.) Old man, you know tco 
well — 
Aymer, my brother. 

Gas. I have seen him. 

Rai. How ! 
Seen him ! Speak on. 

Gas. Another than my chief 
Should have my life before the shameful tale » 

Rai. Sjieak quickly. 

Gas. In the desert, as I journeyed baqk, 
A band of Arabs met me on the way, 
And I became their captive. Till last night- •-- 

Rai. Go on ! Last night ? 

Gas. Ihey slumbered by their fires — 
/ could not sleep ; when one — I thought him oni 
O' the tribe at first — came up and loosed m^ 

bonds, 
And led ine from the shadow of the tents. 
Pointing my way in silciu^o. 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



S7i 



Rat. Well, and he — 
ITou thought him one o' the tribe. 

Gas. Ay till he stood 
Ln the cle^r moonlight forth ; — and then, my 
lord 

Rai. You dare not say 'twas Aymer ? 

Gas. Woe and shame ! 
U was, it was ! 

Rai. In their vile garb too ? 

Gas. Yes, 
Turbaned and robed like them. 

Rai. What ! — did he speak ? 

Gas. No word, but waved his hand, 
Forbidding speech to me. 

Rai. Tell me no more ! — 
Lost, lost — forever lost ! He that was reared 
Under my father's roof with me, and grew 
Up by my side to glory ! — lost ! Is this 
My work ? — who dares to call it mine ? And yet, 
Had I not dealt so sternly with his soul 

In its deep anguish What ! he wears their 

garb 
r the face of heaven ? You saw the turban on 

him ? 
You should have struck him to the earth, and so 
Put out our shame forever ! 

Gas. Lift my sword 
Against your father's son ! 

Rai. My father's son ! 
Ay, and so loved ! — that yearning love for him 
Was the last thing death conquered ! Seest thou 
there ? 

[The banner of the Cross is raised on the fortress. 
The very banner he redeemed for us 
I' the fight at Cairo ! No ! by yon bright sign, 
He shall not perish ! This way — follow me — 
I'll tell thee of a thought. 
(^Suddenly stopping him.) Take heed, old man ! 
Thou hast a fearful secret in thy grasp : 
Let me not see thee wear mysterious looks. 
But no ! thou lovest our name ! — I'll trust thee, 
Gaston ! [Exeunt. 

BcENE III. — ■ An Arab Encampment round a few 
Palm Trees in the Desert. — Watchfres in the 
background. — Night. 

Several Arabs enter icith Aymer. 

Arab Chief. Thou hast fought bravely, stran- 
ger ! Now come on 
To share the spoil. 

Aym. I reck not of it. Go, 
Leave me to rest. 

Arab. Well, thou hast earned thy rest 
Witl a red sabre. Be it as thou wilt. 



[They go out. — lie throws himself under a 
palm tree. 
Aym. This wore an hour — if they woulO 

answer us 
— They from whose viewless world no answei 

comes — 
To hear their whispering voices. Would I hey but 
Speak once, and say they loved ! 
If I could hear thy thrilling voice once more, 
It would be well with me. Moraima ! speak ; 

Rainier enters disguised as a dervise. 
Moraima, speak ! No ! the dead cannot lov3 ! 
Rai. What doth the stranger here .' — is thera 
not mirth 
Around the watchfires yonder ? 

Aym. Mirth ! — away ! — 
I've nought to do with mirth. Begone ! 

Rai. They tell 
Wild tales by that red light ; wouldst thou noi 

hear 
Of Eastern marvels ? 

Aym. Hence ! I heed them not. 
Rai. Nay, then hear me I 
Aym. Thee ! 
Rai. Yes, I know a tale 
Wilder than theirs. 

Aym. {raising himself in surprise.) Thou 

know'st ! — 
Rai. (without minding, contifiues.) A tale of 
one 
Who flung in madness to the reckless deep 
A gem beyond all price. 

Aym. My day is closed. 
What is aught human unto me ? 

Rai. Yet mark ! 
His name was of the noblest — dost thou Heed ' 
Even in a land of princely chivalry ; 
Brightness was on it — but he cast it down. 
Aym. I will not hear — speak st thou of chiv- 
alry? 
Rai. Yes ! I have been upon thy native .'Lis. 
There's a gray cliff juts proudly from then 

woods, 
Browned with baronial towers — remcmbe: ei* 

thou? 
And there's a chapel by the moaning sea — 
Thou know'st it well — tall pines Avave over it 
Darkening the heavy banners, and the tombs. 
Is not the cross upon thy fathers' tombs ! 
Christian ! what dost thou here ? 

Aym. (starting up indignantly.) Man ! who art 
thou? 
Thy voice disturbs my souj Speak ! I will knoin 
Thy right to question r.e 



J74 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Rai. {throwing off his disguise, stands before 
him in the full dross of a Crusader.) 
My birthright ! — look ! 

Aym. Brother ! {Retreating from him with 
horror.) 
*~ Her blood is on your hands ! — keep back ! 
Rai. {scornfully.) Nay, keep the Paynim's 
garb from touching mine. 
Ajiswer me thence ! — what dost thou here ? 

Aym. You shrink 
From your own work ! — you, that have made 

me thus ! 
Wherefore are you here ? Are you not afraid 
To stand beneath the awful midnight sky, 
And you a murderer ? Leave me. 

Rai. I lift up 
No murderer's brow to heaven ! 
Aym. You dare speak thus ! — 
Do not the bright stars, with their searching 

rays. 
Strike through your guilty soul ? O, no ! — 

'tis well. 
Passing well ! Murder ! Make the earth's har- 
vests grow 
With Paynim blood ! — Heaven wills it ! The 

free air. 
The sunshine — I forgot — they were not made 
For infidels. Blot out the race from day ! 
WTio talks of murder ? Murder ! when you die, 
(/'laim your soul's place of happiness i' the name 
Of that good deed ! 

{In a tone of deep feeling.) 

If you had loved a flower 
I would not have destroyed it ! 
Rai. {tvith emotion.) Brother ! 
Aym. [impetuously.) No ! — 
No brother now. She knelt to you in vain ; 
And that hath set a gulf — a boundless gulf — 
Between cur souls. Your very face is changed — 
There's a red cloud shadowing it: your fore- 
head wears 
The marks of blood — her blood ! 

{In a triumphant tone.) 
But you prevail not ! You have made the dead 
The mighty — the victorious ! Yes ! you thought 
To dash her image into fragments down, 
And you have given it power — such deep sad 

power 
I see nought else on earth ! 

Rai. {aside.) I dare not say she lives. 
{To Aymek, holding up the cross of his sword.) 

You see not this ! 
)nce by our father's grave, I asked, and here, 
!' the silence of the waste, I ask once more — 
Rave 3'ou abjurf d your faith ? 



Aym. Why are you come 
To^torture me ? No, no ! I have not. No ' 
But you have sent the torrent through mi 

soul, 
And by their deep strong roots torn fiercely up 
Things that were part of it — inborn fcelingt 

thoughts — 
I know not what I cling to ! 

Rai. Aymer ! yet 
Heaven hath not closed its gates ! Return, re» 

turn. 
Before the shadow of the palm tree iades 
I' the waning moonlight. Heaven gives time 

Return, 
My brother ! By our early days — the love 
That nurtured us ! — the holy dust of those 
That sleep i' the tomb ! — sleep ! no, they can- 
not sleep ! 
Doth the night bring no voices from the dead 
Back on your soul ? 

Aym. {turning from, him.) Yes — hers ! 
Rai. {i7idignantly turning off.) Why should 1 
strive ? 
W^hy doth it cost me these deep throes to fling 
Aweedofl".^ [Checking himself 

Brother, hath the stranger come 
Between our hearts forever r Yet return — 
Win back your fame, my brother ! 

Aym. Fame again ! 
Leave me the desert ! — leave it me ! I hate 
Your false world's glittering draperies, that press 

down 
Th' o'erlabored heart ! They have crushed 

mine. Your vain 
And hollow- sounding words are wasted now : 
You should adjure me by the name of hi^ 
That slew his son's young bride ! — o\ir an- 
cestor — 
That were a spell ! Fame ! fame ! your hand 

hath rent 
The veil from off your world ! To speak of fame, 
When the soul is parched like mine ! Away ! 
I have joined these men because they war with 

man, 
And all his hollow pomp ! Will you go hence .' 
{Fiercely.) Why do I talk thus with a mur^ 

derer f Ay, 
This is the desert, Avhere true words may rise 
Up unto heaven i' the stillness ! Leave it me ! — 
The free wild desert ' 

Arab Chief enters. 
Arab. Stranger, we have shared 

The spoil, forgetting not A Christian here 

I Ho ! sons of Kedar ! — 'tis De Chatillon 1 



D£ CHATILLOX ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



37; 



This M ay I — surround him ! There's an Emir's 

\Tealth 
Set on his life ! Come on ! 

[Several A7-abs rush m atid surround Rainier, 
who, after vainly endeavoring to force his 
way through them, is made prisoner. 
Eai. And he stands there 
fa see me bought and sold ! Death, death '•■ — 
not chains ! 
[Aymer, who has stood for a moment as if 
bewildered, mshes forward, and strikes 
dovoji one of the Arabs. 
Aym. Off from my brother, infidel ! 

[ The others hurry Rainier away. 
( Becollecting himself.) Why, then, Heaven 
Is just ! So ! now I see it ! Blood for blood ! 

[Again rushing forward. 
No ! he shall feel remorse ! I'll rescue him, 
And make him weep for her ! [Exit, 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Fortress occupied by De 
Chatillon's followers. 

Knights listening to a Troubadour. 

Her. No more soft strains of love. Good 
Yidal, sing 
Th' imprisoned warrior's lay. There's a proud 

tone 
Of lofty sadness in it. 

Tkoudabour sings. 

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight looked do^sTi from the Paynim's 

tower, 
And & Christian host in its pride and power 
Through the pass beneath him wound. 
" Cease a while, clarion ! clarion, wild and 

shrill, 
Cfc&se ! let them hear the captive's voice — be 
still ' 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! 
Ajtid I see my brethren's lances gleam, 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream. 

And their plumes to the glad wind float. 
" Cease a while, clarion ! &c. 

*' I am here with my heavy chain 
Ajid I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
*»nd an eagle rushing to the sky, 

And a host to its battle plain ! 
"* Cease a while, clarion ! &c. 



" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free oird 

flight, 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear ? 
Cease awhile, clarion ! " &c.* 

Aymer enters hurriedly. 
Aym. Silence, thou minstrel ! silence ! 
Her. Aymer here ! 
And in that garb ! Seize on the renegade ! 
Knights, he must die ! 

Aym. {scornfully.) Die! die! — the fearfu. 
threat ! 
To be thrust out of this same bless6d world. 
Your world — all yours I {Fiercely.) But I wil 

not be made 
A thing to circle with your pomps of death. 
Your chains, and guards, and scaffolds ! Back ! 

I'll die 
As the free lion dies ! [Drawing his sabre. 

Her. What seek'st thou here ? 
Aym. Nought but to give your Christian 
swords a deed 

Worthier than Where's your chief? ir 

the Paynim's bonds ! 
Made the wild Arubs' prize ! Ay, Heaven is just ! 
If ye will rescue him, then follow me : 
I know the way they bore him ! 

Her. Follow thee ! 
Recreant ! deserter of thy house and faith ! 
To think true knights would follow thee again I 
'Tis aU some snare — away I 

Aym. Some snare ! Heaven ! Heaven ! 
Is my name sunk to this ? Must men first crush 
My soul, then spurn the ruin they have made ? 
— Why, let him perish ! — blood for blood ! — 

must earth 
Cry out in vain ? Wine, wine ! we'll 'evel here ! 
On, minstrel, with thy song ! 



1 " She preferred in music whatever was national and 
naelancholy ; and her strains adapted for singing wer^ of 
course, framed to the tones most congenial to the tempera- 
ment of her own mind. How successfully wed to the magit 
of sweet sound many of her verses have been by her sislfti, 
no lover of music need to be reminded. ' The Roman Gir! s 
Song' is full of a solemn classic beauty ; and, in one ol nei 
letters, it is said that of 'The Captive Knight' Sir Waltei 
Scott never was weary. Indeed, it seems in his mmd to 
have been the song of Chivalry, representative of the Eng- 
lish ; as the Flowers of the Forest was of the Scottish ; tli« 
Caricionella EspaSola of the Spanish ; and the Rhme Sonj 
of the Germans." — Biographical Sketch by Delta, 1836. 

" Of all Mrs. Hemans's lyrics set to music, ' Tlie Captiv< 
Knight ' has been the most popular, and deservedly so. I, 
has indeed stirred many a heart " like the sound of a trum 
pet." — Chorley's Memorials, 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Tboubadour continues the song. 

•• They are gone — they have all passed by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart. 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! clarion, pour thy blast ! 
Sound, for the captive's dream of hope is past ! " 

Aym. {starting up.) That was the lay he loved 

in our boyish days — 
And he must die forsaken ! No, by Heaven ! 
He shall not ! Follow me ! I say your chief 
Is bought and sold ! Is there no generous trust 
Left in your souls ? De Foix, I saved your life 
At Ascalon ! Du Mornay, you and I 
On Jaffa's wall together set our breasts 
Against a thousand spears ! What! have I fought 
Beside you, shared your cup, slept in your tents. 

And ye can think [Dashing off his turban. 

Look on my burning brow ! 
Read if there's falsehood branded on it — read 
The marks of treachery there ! 
Knights {gathering round him) No, no ! come on ! 
To the rescue! lead us on! we'll trust thee 

still ! 
Aym. Follow, then I — this way. If I die for him. 
There will be vengeance I He shall think of me 
To his last hour ! [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A Pavilion in the Camp of Melech. 

Melech, Sadi. 

Mel. It must be that these sounds and sights 
of war 
Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek 
Fades hourly in my sight ! What other cause — 
None, none ! She must go hence ! Choose from 

thy band 
The bravest, Sadi ! and the longest tried, 

And I will send my child 

Voice without. Where is your chief ? 

De Chatillon enters, guarded by Arab and 
Turkish soldiers. 

Arab Chief. The sons of Kedar's tribe have 
brought to the son 
Df the Prophet's house a prisoner ! 

Mel. {half drawing his sword. Chatillon ! 
That slew my boy ! Thanks for the avenger's 

hour ! 
Padi, their guerdon — give it them — the gold ! 
And me the vengeance I 

; Looking at Rainier, %oho holds tJie up'per fragment 
of his sword, a^'^d seems lost in thought.) 



This is he 
That slew my first-born ! 

Rai. {to himself. ) Surely there leaped up 
A brother's heart within him ! Yes, he struck 

To the earth a Paynim 

Mel. {raising his voice.) Christian 1 thouhasi 
been 
Our nation's deadliest foe ! 

Rai. {looking up and smiling proudly.) 'Tis joj 
to hear 
I have not lived in vain ! 

Mel. Thou bear' St thyself 
With a conqueror's mien ! What is thy hope 
from me ? 
Rai. A soldier's death. 
Mel. {hastily.) Then thou would'st fear a 

slave's ? 
Rai. Fear ! As if man's own spirit had not 
power 
To make his death a triumph ! Waste not words ; 
Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel, 
I slew thy son ! [Looking at his broken stcord. 

Ay, there's the red mark here ! 
Mel. {approaching him.) Thou darest to tell me 
this ! [A tumult heard without. 

Voices icithout. A Chatillon ! 
Rai. My brother's voice ! He is saved! 
Mel. {calli?ig.) What, ho ! my guards ! 

Aymer enters with the knights, fighting their way 
through Melech's soldiers, who are driven be- 
fore them. 

Aym. On with the war cry of our ancient 
house : 
For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

Knights. For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

[Rainier atternpts to break from hin guards. 
Sadi enters with more soldiers to the as- 
sistance of Melech. Aymer ajid the 
knights are overpowered. Aymeb is 
wounded and falls. 
Mel. Bring fetters — bind the captives ! 
Rai. Lost — all lost ! 
No ! he is saved ! 

{Breakitig from his guards, he goes up to Atmeb.) 
Brother, mj"- brother ! hast thou pardoned me 
That which I did to save thee ? Speak ! forgive 

Aym. {turning from him.) 
Thou seest I die for thee ! She is avenged ! 

Rai. I am no murderer ! Hear me ! turn to me 
We are parting by the grave ! 

MoRAiMA enters veiled., and goes up to Melech. 

Mor. Father 1 O, look not sternl} on thj 
child. 



DE CHATiLLON ; OK. I'lIE CRUSADERS. 



37i 



t came to plead. They said thou hast condemned 
\ Christian knight to die 

Mel. Hence — to thy tent ! 
Away — begone ! 

A^jm. {aitempting to rise.) Moraima ! hath her 
spirit come 
To make death beautiful ? Moraima ! speak ! 

Mor. It was his voice ! Aymer ! 

[SHa rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. 

Aym. Thou liv'st — thou liv'st ! 
I knew thou couldst not die ! Look on me still. 
Thou llvest ! and makest this world so full of 

joy— 

But I depart ! 

Mel. {approaching her.) Moraima ! hence ! Is 
this 
A place for thee ? 

Mor. Away ! away ! 
There is no place but this for me on earth ! 
Where should I go ? There is no place but this ! 
My soul is bound to it ! 
Mel. ( To the guards.) Back, slaves ! and look 
not on her ! 

[TItey retreat to the background. 
'Twas for this 
She drooped to the earth. 

Aym. Moraima, fare thee well ! 
Think on me ! I have loved thee ! I take hence 
That deep love with my soul ! for well I know 
It must be deathless ! 

Mor. O, thou hast not known 
What woman^s love is ! Aymer, Aymer, stay ! 
If I could die for thee ! My heart is grown 
So strong in its despair ! 

Rai. {turning from them.) And all the past 
Forgotten ! — our young days ! His last thoughts 

hers ! 
The Infidel's ! 

Aym. {loith a violent effort turning his head 
round.) Thou art no murderer ! Peace 
Between us — peace, my brother ! In our deaths 
We shall be joined once more ! 

Rai. {holding the cross of the sword before him.) 
Ljok yet on this ! 

Aym. If thou hadst only told me that she lived ! 
— • But our hearts meet at last ! 

{Presses the cross to his lips. 
Moraima ! save my brother ! liOok on me ! 
Joy — there is joy in death! 

[lie dies on Rainier's arm. 
Mor. Speak — speak once more ! 
Aymer ! how is it that I call on thee, 
And that thou answer' st not? Have we not 

loved ? 
Death ! death ! — and this is - death ! 
48 



Rai. So thou art gone, 
Aymer ! I never thought to weep again — 
But now — farewell! Thou wert the braTest 

knight 
That e'er laid lance in rest — and thou didst weai 
The noblest form that ever woman's eye 
Dwelt on with love ; and till that fatal dream 
Came o'er thee, Aymer ! Aymer ! thou wert still 
The most true-hearted brother ! There thou art 
Whose breast was once my shield ! I neve 

thought 
That foes should see me weep ! but there thou 
art, 

Aymer, my brother ! 

Mor. {suddenly rising.) With his last, last breath 
He bade me save his brother ! 

{Falling at Melech's feet.) Father, spare 
The Christian — spare him ! 

Mel. For thy sake spare him 
That slew thy father's son ! Shame to thy race . 

( To the soldiers in the background.) 
Soldiers ! come nearer with your levelled spears ! 
Yet nearer ! — gird him in ! My boy's young 

blood 
Is on his sword. Christian, abjure thy faith, 
Or die : thine hour is come ! 

Rai. {turning atid throwing himself on the loeap- 
ons of the soldiers.) Thou hast mine an- 
swer. Infidel ! 
[ Calling aloud to the knights as he falls back. 
Knights of France ! 
Herman ! De Foix ! Du Mornay ! be ye strong : 

Your hour will come ! 

Must the old war cry cease ? 
{Half raising himself and waving the Cross 
triumphantly. 
For the Cross — De Chatillon ! [He dies. 

( The curtain falls.) 

ANNOTATION ON " DE CHATILLOIT.'* 

[" The merits of ' The Siege of Valencia' are more of a 
descriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind ; and abounding 
as it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and uith 
striking scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted foi 
representation, but, on the contrary, the characters are de 
veloped by painting much more than by incident. Witha , 
it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is u t 
rhetorical, but diffuse. 

" From the previous writings of the same author, an.l 
until the appearance of The Vespers of Palermo,' it seemed 
to be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs 
Hemans was not of a dramatic cast — that it expatiated to« 
much in the development of sentiment, too much in the 
luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under th 
trammels essentially necessary for the success of stenif 
dialogue. 

" The merits of ' The Vespers ' ar«> great, and h?ve beev 



378 



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acknowledged to be s» , not cnly by the highest of contem- 
porary literary authorities, but by the still more unequivocal 
testimony of tJieatrical applause. What 'has been, has 
•^en,' and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so 
fiiirly earned ; but we must candidly confess, that before the 
perusal of ' De Chatillon,' (although that poem is probably 
not quite in the state in which it would have been submii- 
ted^o the world by its writer,) we were somewhat infected 
with the prevailing opinion, that the most successful path of 
Mrs. Hemans did not lead her towards the drama. Our 
opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered ; and 
we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the char- 
acters of Rainier — so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal 
iove, and now by public duty — and of Aymer and Morai- 
ma, placed in situations where inclination is opposed to 
principle — that, by the cultivation of this species of com- 
position, had health and prolonged years been the fate of 
the author of ' De Chatillon,' that tragedy, noble as it is, 
which must now be placed at the head of her dramatic ef- 
forts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in 
excellence by ulterior efforts. 



" Mrs. Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. 1 
is quite evident that she had suci.>oeded in imbibing new an 
more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She ha4 
passed from the narrative into what has been conventionallj 
termed the dramatic poem — from the ' Historic Scenes' tfl 
« Sebastian ' and ' The Siege of Valencia ; ' but ' The Ves- 
pers of Palermo ' and ' De Chatillon ' can alone be said to 
be her legitimate dramas. 

" The last, however, must be ranked first, by many de- 
grees of comparison. Without stripping her language of that 
richness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, o' 
condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, si 
commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage 
as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in 
this attempt, preserved adherence to reality amidst scenes 
allied with romance — brevity and effect, in situations 
strongly alluring to amplification ; and, in her delineation 
of some of the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of 
the heart, there is exhibited a knowledge of nature's work- 
ings, at once minute, faithful, and affecting." — JdS. Crittfui 
by A.] 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



"Long time against oppression have I fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suffered bonds." — Remorse; a Tragedy. 

[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying 
from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North 
American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an 
asylum.] 



The voices of my home ! — I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy 

night ! 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloyed delight ! 
I hear them still, imchanged : though some from 

earth 
Are music pa'rted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more 

bright — 
Have died in others, yet to me they come 
Binging of boyhood back — the voices of my 

home! 



They call me through this hush of woods re- 
posing 

[n the gray stillness of the summer morn ; 

They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, 

Ind thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars 
are born. 



Even as a' fount's remembered gushings burst 
On the parched traveller in his hour of thirsty 
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till 

worn 
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say — 

for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee 

away, 

III. 

And find mine ark ! Yet whither ? I mus* 

bear 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 

1 am of those o'er whom a breath of air — 
Just darkening in its course the lake's brghi 

wave, 
And sighing through the feathery canes — hath 

power 
To call up shadows, in the silent hour, 
From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave ! 
So must it be. These skies above me spread — 
Are they my own soft skies ? — Ye rest not hera 

my dead ! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



375 



i'e far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping;, 
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear ; 
Save one ! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping 
High o'er one gentle head. Ye rest not here ! — 
'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying. 
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing 
Thujugh my own chestnut groves, which fill 

mine ear ; 
Bai the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, 
A.nd for their birthplace moan, as moans the 

ocean shell. 



Peace ! I will dash these fond regrets to earth, 
E'en as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain 
From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me 

birth. 
And lineage, and once home — my native 

Spain ! 
My own bright land — my fathers' land — my 

child's ! 
What hath thy son brought from thee to the 

wilds ? 
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain, 
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze ; 
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe — 

thy gifts are these ! 



A blighted name ! I hear the winds of morn — 
Their sounds are not of this ! I hear the shiver 
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, when the light leaves 

quiver : 
Their sounds are not of this ! 



the cedars. 



wavmg. 



It is not murmured by the joyous river ! 
.What part hath mortal name, where God alone 
Bpeaks to the mighty waste, and through its 
heart is known ? 



Is it not much that I may worship Him 
With nought my spirit's breathings to control. 
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim. 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cataracts ? Shall I not rejoice 
That I have lea: ned at last to know His voice 
From man's ? l will rejoice ! — my soaring soul 
Now hath red emed her birthright of the day, 
Ajid won, through clouds, to Him her own un- 
fettered way ! 



And thou, my boy ! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, 
Filled with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without dis- 
guise ; 
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, 
When I have checked its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh befor* 

me rise. ! 
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful 
air? 



Why should I weep on thy bright head, ray 

boy ? 
Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell. 
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, 
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell 
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling wavea 
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves ? 
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel. 
As piine hath done ; nor bear what I have borne 
Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant bro-w 

of scorn. 



This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child ! 
I have not sorrowed, struggled, lived in vain 
Hear me ! magnificent and ancient wild ; 
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main, 
As deep meets deep ; and forests, whose dim 

shade 
The flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells per- 
vade ; 
Hear me ! 'Tis well to die, and not complain , 
Yet there are hours when the charged heart 

must speak, 
E'en in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break ! 



I see an oak before me : ' it hath been 
The crowned one of the woods ; and might haTt 
flung 

1 " I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical tempera 
ment, expressing the kind of horror which he felt on be- 
holding, on the banks of the A'lSsouri, an oak of prodigious 
size, which had been in a manner overpowered by an 
enormous wild grape vine. The vine had clasped its huge 
folds round the trunk, and from thence had wound about 
every branch and twig, until the mighty tree had wiUiered 
in its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon struggling ii •ffect- 
ually in the hideous coils of the monster Python.'' — Brar,* 
bridge Hall. Cliapter on Forest Trooa 



380 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



[ts hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green 
But a ^vild vine around the stem hath clung, 
From branch to branch close wreaths of bond- 
age throwing, 
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, 
Hath shrunk and died those serpent folds among. 
Alas ! alas ! what is it that I see ? 
An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with 
thee! 



Yet art thou lovely ! Song is on thy hills : 
O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 
That lulled my boyhood, how your memory thrills 
The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain ! 
Your sounds are on the rocks : — that I might 

hear 
Once more the music of the mountaineer ! 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out, and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic 

race. 



But there was silence one bright, golden day, 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, 

yet lone, 
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay, 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone ; 
And the red grapes untrodden strewed the 

ground ; 
And the free flocks, untended, roamed around. 
Where was the pastor ? — where the pipe's wild 

tone? 
Music and mirth were hushed the hills among. 
While to the city's gates each hamlet poured its 

throng. 



Silence upon the mountains ! But within 
The city's gate, a rush, a press, a swell 
Of multitudes, their torrent way to win ; 
And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, 
V dead pause following each — like that which 

parts 
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 
Fast in the hush of fear — kneU after knell ; 
And sounds of thickenmg steps, like thunder rain 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing 

fane ! 



What pageant's hour approached ? The sullen 

gate 
■ )f a strong ancient prison house was thrown 



Back to the day. And who, in mournfu, 

state, 
Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold stone / 
They that had learned, in cells of secret gloom, 
How sunshine is forgotten ! They to whom 
The very features of mankind were gro-w-n 
Things that bewildered ! O'er that dazzled sigL 
They lifted their wan hands, and cowered before 

the light ! 



To this, man brings his brother ! Some were 

there. 
Who, with their desolation, had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
Fast round their bosoms, e'en as warriors bind 
The breastplate on for fight ; but brow and cheek 
Seemed theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 
And there were some, from whom the very mina 
Had been wrung out ; they smiled — O, star- 
tling smile, 
Whence man's high soul is fled ! Where doth 
it sleep the while ? 



But onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain — 
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry ! 
Through thousands, thousands of their race they 

moved — 
0, how unlike aU others ! — the beloved. 
The free, the proud, the beautiful ! whose eye 
Grew fixed before them, while a people's breath 
Was hushed, and its one soul bound in tha 

thought of death ! 



It might be that, amidst the countless throng. 
There swelled some heart with pity's weight 

oppressed : 
For the wide stream of human love is strong ; 
And woman, on wKose fond and faitliful breast 
Childhood is reared, and at whose 1 nee the sigt 
Of its first prayer is breathed — » h<j, too, wan 

nigh. 
But life is dear, and the free footst«p blessed, 
And home a sunny place, where each may fill 
Some eye with glistening smiles, — and there- 
fore all were still. 



All still, — youth, mrage, strength ! — a wintel 

laid, 
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mic d ! 



THE i'OREST SANCTUARY. 



ISi 



Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade, 
Ihey stood, those breathless masses of mankind, 
Still, as a frozen torrent ! But the wave 
Soon leaps to foaming freedom ; they, the brave, 
Endured — they saw the martyr's place assigned 
In the red flames — whence is the withering spell 
That numbs each human pulse ? They saw, and 
thouaht it well. 



And T, too, thought it well ! That very morn 
From ft far land I came, yet round me clung 
The spirit of my own ! No hand had torn 
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw 
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe 
I watched the fearful rites ; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, 
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poi- 
son cup. 



But I was wakened as the dreamers waken. 
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread 
House up at midnight; when their walls are taken. 
And they must battle till their blood is shed 
On their own threshold floor. A path for light 
Through my torn breast was shattered by the 

might 
Of the swift thunder stroke ; and freedom's tread 
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, 
Making the blighted place all green with life 

again. 

XXII. 

btill darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass 
Of cloud o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky. 
Dreamlike I saw the sad procession pass, 
And marked its victims with a tearless eye. 
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought 
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought, 
On the sharp edge of sad mortality ; 
Till in his place came one — O, could it be ? 
My friend, my heart's first friend ! — and did I 
gaze on thee ! 



On thee ! with whom in boyhood I had played. 
At the grape gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid 
Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dreams ; 
A.nd by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood, 
A.nd in whose helm was brought — O, earned 

with blood ! — 
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 



Smote on my fevered brow ' Ay, years ha(? 



Severing our paths, brave friend ! — and thta 
v/e met at last! 



I see it still — the lofty mien thou borest ! 
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power — 
The very look that once thou brightly worest. 
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour. 
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, 
'Midst the white Andes — even as mountain deer, 
Hemmed in our camp ; but through the javelin 

shower 
We rent our way, a tempest of despair ! 
And thou — hadst thou but died with thy true 

brethren there ! 



I call the fond wish back — for thou hast perished 
More nobly far, my Alvar ! — making known 
The might of truth ; ' and be thy memory 

cherished 
With theirs, the thousands that around hei 

throne 
Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb ! 
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown. 
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread. 
Filling man's heart and home with records of 

the dead. 



Thou Searcher of the soul ! in whose dread 

sight 
Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, 
But the scarce-owned unwhispered thought of 

night, 
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies ; 
Thou know'st — whose eye through shade and 

depth can see, 
That this man's crime was but to worship thee, 
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice. 
The called of yore — wont by the Savior's siSe 
On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide. 



For the strong spirit will at times awake. 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode , 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oracles of God ; 

1 For a most interesting account of the Spanish Prote^ 
tants, and the heroic devotion with which they met the spiri. 
of persecution in the sixteenth century, see the icluarte^ f 
Review, No. 57, art. " Cluin's Visit to Soain." 



382 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



A.nd even for this — O dust, whose mask is 

power ! 
Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little 

hour ! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, 
A.nd therefore thou destroy est ! — where were 

flown 
Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree 

alone ! 

XXVIII. 

Bvt this I felt not yet. I could but gaze 

Op him, my friend ; while that swift moment 

threw 
A sudden freshness back on vanished days, 
Like water drops on some dim picture's hue ; 
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood 
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick 

blood 
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew. 
And he — his sword was like a brother's worn, 
That watches through the field his mother's 

youngest born. 

XXIX. 

But a lance met me in that day's career — 
Senseless I lay amidst the o'ers weeping fight ; 
Wakening at last, how full,- how strangely clear, 
That scene on memory flashed ! — the shivery 

light. 
Moonlight, on broken shields — the plain of 

slaughter. 
The fountain side, the low sweet sound of 

water — 
And Alvar bending o'er me — from the night 
Covering me with his mantle. All the past 
Flowed back ; my soul's far chords all answered 

to the blast. 



Till, in that rush of visions, I became 
As one that, by the bands of slumber wound. 
Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame. 
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound, 
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings 
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things ! 
•roubled even thus I stood, but chained and 

bound 
On that familiar form mine eye to keep : 
Alas ! I might not fall upon his neck and weep ! 

XXXI. 

He passed me — and what next ? I looked on 

two. 
Following his footsteps to the snme dread place, 



For the same guilt — his sisters ! ' Well t Kce-w 
The beauty on those brows, though each young 

face 
Was changed — so deeply changed ! — a due 

geon's air 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. 
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race. 
Queen-like Theresa ! radiant Inez ! — flowers 
So cherished ! were ye then but reared for thoe* 

dark hours ? 



A mournful home, young sisters, had ye left ! 
With your lutes hanging hushed upon the wall. 
And silence round the aged man, bereft 
Of each glad voice once answering to his call. 
Alas, that lonely father ! doomed to pine 
For sounds departed in his life's decline ; 
And, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall, 
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you 
to shame ! ^ 

XXXIII. 

And woe for you, 'midst looks and words of lo\e, 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long ! 
How had I seen you in your beauty move. 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song !— 
Yet sat, e'en then, what seemed the crowd to 

shun. 
Half veiled upon the pale clear brow of one. 
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong — 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery 

sway. 
Within the drooping shade of her swee**- eyelids 

lay. 

1 " A priest named Gonzalez had, among other prose- 
lytes, gained over two young females, his sisters, to the Proi 
estant faith. All three were confined in the dungeons of 
the Inquisition. The torture, repeatedly applied, could oy 
draw from them the least evidence against their religicj 
associates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a recan- 
tation from the two sisters, since the constancy and learning 
of Gonzalez precluded all hopes of a theological victory 
Their answer, if not exactly logical, is wonderfully simpl* 
and afl;ecting : — ' We will die in the faith of our brother: 
he is too wise to be wrong, and too good to (.eceive u*.' 
The three stakes on which they died were near each other 
The priest had been gagged till the moment of lighting up 
the wood. The few minutes that he was allowed to speak 
he employed in comforting his sisters, with whom he sung 
the 109th Psalm, till the flames smotlu-ied their voices." — 
Quarterly Review, No. 57, " Quin's Visit to Spain." 

2 The names not only of the immediate victims of the 
Inquisition were devoted to infamy, but those of all theii 
relations were branded with the same indelible stain, which 
was likewise to descend as an inhoritan''f to tl-ir Intf* 
posterity. 



THE FOKEST SANCTUARY. 



389 



XXXIV. 

A.nd if she mingled -with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar. 
Yet vv'ould she smile — and that, too, hath its 

smile — 
Circled with joy which reached her not the while, 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. 

XXXV. 

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might 
Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, 
A. treasure all undreamt of, — as the night 
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 
Unheard by day. It seemed as if her breast 
Had hoarded energies, till then suppressed 
Almost with pain, and bursting from control, 
A-nd finding first that hour their pathway free : 
Could a rose brave the storm, such might her 
emblem be ! 



For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung 
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, 
Was fled ; and fire, like prophecy's, had sprung 
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn — 
Pride — sense of wrong ; ay, the frail heart is 

bound 
By these at times, even as with adamant round, 
Kept so from breaking ! Yet not thus upborne 
She moved, though some sustaining passion's 

wave 
Lifted her fervent soul — a sister for the brave ! 



And yet, alas ! to see the strength which clings 
Round woman in such hours ! — a mournful 

sight, 
1 hough lovely ! — an o'erflowing of the springs. 
The full springs of affection, deep as bright ! 
Ajid she, because her life is ever twined 
With other lives, and by no stormy wind 
May thence be shaken, and because the light 
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye 
Doth weep such passionate tears — therefore she 

thus can die. 

XXXVIII. 

fhsrefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking 

scene, 
Aj through a triumph move ; and cast aside 



Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory'* 

mien, 
O faithful sister ! cheering thus the guide, 
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth. 
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth 
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified ; 
Nor wouldst thou, following him through ali the 

past. 
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at 

last. 

XXXIX. 

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest, 
'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that whicl-, 

grows 
Between the nurtured of the same fond breas' 
The sheltered of one roof ; and thus it rose 
Twined in with life. How is it that the hours 
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers 
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose. 
And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft 
From the heart's memory fade in this world's. 

breath so oft ? 



But thee that breath hath touched not ; thee, 

nor him. 
The true in all things found ! — and thou wor* 

blest 
E'en then, that no remembered change could 

dim 
The perfect image of afl'ection, pressed 
Like armor to thy bosom ! Thou hadst kept 
Watch by thy brother's couch of pain, and wept, 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when re&l 
Fled from the sufi"erer ; thou hadst bound his faitn 
Unto thy soul ; one light, one hope ye chose — 

one death. 



So didst thou pass on brightly ! — but for her. 
Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken ' 
All Merciful ! to think that such things were. 
And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken I 
To think of that fair girl, whose path had been 
So strewed with rose leaves, all one fairy scene ! 
And whose quick glance came ever as a token 
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice 
As a free bird's in spring, that makes the wood> 
rejoice ! 



And she to die ! — she loved the laughmg earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves 9n^ 
flowers ! 



584 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Was not her smile e'en as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow coloring vernal showers ? 
Yes ! but to meet her fawnlike step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, 
Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flowed from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull 
decav ! 



Could this change be ? The hour, the scene, 

where last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind : 
A golden vintage eve ; the heats were passed, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind. 
Her father sat where gleamed the first faint star 
Through the lime boughs ; and with her light 

guitar, 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined. 
In his calm face laughed up ; some shepherd lay 
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at 

play. 

xLrv. 

And now — O God ! — the bitter fear of death, 
The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread. 
Had grasped her ! — panting in her quick-drawn 

breath. 
And in her white lips quivering. Onward led. 
She looked up with her dim, bewildered eyes. 
And there smiled out her own soft, brilliant 

skies, 
Far in their sultry southern azure spread. 
Glowing with joy, but silent ! — still they smiled, 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trem- 
bling child. 



Alas ! that earth had all too strong a hold, 
Too fast, sweet Inez ! on thy heart, whose bloom 
Was given to early love, nor knew how cold 
The hours whicn follow. There was one, with 

whom, 
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried. 
Thou mightst, perchance, unshrinkingly have 

died ; 
But he was far away ; and with thy doom 
Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, 
Fhat all thy slight frame shook with its cold, 

mortal fear ! 



No aid ! — thou too didst pass ! — and all had 

passed. 
The fearful, and the desperate, and the strong ! 



Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, 
Some Kke the leaf swept shiveringly along ; 
And some as men that have but one more field 
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield : 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the thiong 
Rolled on, and bore me with their living tide, 
E'en as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. 

XLVTI. 

Wave swept on wave. We reached a stately 

square. 
Decked for the rites. An altar stood op high. 
And gorgeous, in the midst : a place fo3 prayer, 
And praise, and off'ering. Could the earth supply 
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall ? 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die. 
As when before their God the patriarchs stood ? 
Look down ! man brings thee. Heaven, his 

brother's guiltless blood ! 



Hear its voice, hear ! — a cry goes up to thee. 
From the stained sod; make thou thy judgment 

known 
On him the shedder ! — let his portion be 
The fear that walks at midnight ; give the moau 
In the mnd haunting him a power to say, 
" Where is thy brother ?" and the stars a ray 
To search and shake his spirit, when alone. 
With the dread splendor of their burning eyes ! 
So shall earth own thy will — Mercy, not sac- 
rifice ! 

XLIX. 

Sounds of triumphant praise ! the mass wai 

sung — 
Voices that die not might have poured such 

strains. 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant 

have rung. 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains. 
Had quelled her foes — so full it swept, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free ! 
Oft when the wind, as through resounding tanck, 
Hath filled the choral forests with its power. 
Some deep tone brings me back the music of 

that hour. 



It died away ; the incense cloud was driven 
Before the breeze — the words of doom wer« 

said ; 
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven . 
He faded mournfully, and dimly red, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



sat 



Parting in clouds from those that looked their 

last, 
And sighed, '* Farewell, thou sun ! " Eve glowed 

and passed ; 
Nig,nt — midnight and the moon — came forth 

and shed 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot. 
Save one — a place of death — and there men 

slv«nbered not. 

'Twas not within the city,' but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras, freely sweeping. 
With many an eagle's eyry on the height, 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peeping 
Far off ; and vales between, and vineyards lay. 
With sound and gleam of waters on their way, 
And chestnut woods, that girt the happy sleeping 
In many a peasant home ; the midnight sky 
Brc'ght softly that rich world round those who 
rame to die. 



The darkly -glorious midnight sky of Spain, 

Burning with stars ! What had the torches' glare 

To do beneath that temple, and profane 

Its holy radiance ? By their wavering flare, 

I saw beside the pyres — I see thee ?ioip, 

bright Theresa ! with thy lifted brow. 

And thy clasped hands, and dark eyes filled with 

prayer ; 
A.nd thee, sad Inez ! bowing thy fair head, 
And mantling up thy face, all colorless with 

dread ! 

LIII. 

And Alvar, Alvar ! — I beheld thee too, 
Pale, steadfast, kingly : till thy clear glance fell 
On that young sister ; then perturbed it grew. 
And all thy laboring bosom seemed to swell 
With painful tenderness. Why came I there. 
That troubled image of my friend to bear 
Thence, for my after years ? — a thing to dwell 
In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise. 
Disquieting my dreams with its bright, mourn- 
ful eyes ? 

LIV. 

Why came I ? — O, the heart's deep mystery ! — 

Why, 
In man's last hour, doth vain affection's gaze 

« The piles erected for these executions were without the 
(OW ns, and the final scene of an Auto da Fe was sometimes, 
from the length of the preceding ceremonies, delayed till 
ludnight 

49 



Fix itself down on struggling agony. 
To the dimmed eyeballs freezing as they glaze ? 
It might be — yet the power to will seemed o'er — 
That my soul yearned to hear his voice one* 

more ! 
But mine was fettered ! — mute in strong amaze, 
I watched his features as the night wind blew. 
And torchlight or the moon's passed o'er theii 

marble hue. 



The trampling of a steed ! A tall, white steed, 
Rending his fiery way the crowds among — 
A storm's way through a forest — came at speed, 
And a wild voice cried " Inez ! " Swift she flung 
The mantle from her face, and gazed around, 
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound: 
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung, 
And dashed off fiercely those who came to part, 
And rushed to that pale girl, and clasped her tt 
his heart. 



And for a moment all around gave way 

To that full burst of passion. On his breast 

Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay, 

But blest — in misery's very lap, yet blest ! 

O love, love, strong as death ! — from such ai 

hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal pov/er ; 
Holy and fervent love ! had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, this world were all too fair ! 
How could we thence be weaned to die without 

despair ? 

Lvn. 

But she — as falls a willow from the storm, 
O'er its own river streaming — thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck — with such a trusting fold^ 
A full, deep sense of safety in their hold. 
As if nought earthly might th' embrace unbina. 
Alas ! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's rent a 
to km ! 



Brief rest ! upon the turning billow's heigLi 
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly straip 
Floating between the savage gusts of night. 
That sweep the seas to foam. Soon dark again 
The hour, the scene ; th' intensely present ru short 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gushed 
Like blood drops from a victim — with swift rain 



SS6 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Bathing the bosom where she leaned fhat hour, 
ha if her life would melt into th' o'ers welling 
shower. 



But he whose arm sustained her ! — O, I knew 
'Twas vain ! — and yet he hoped — he fondlj-- 

strove 
Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo, 
As Hfe might yet be hers ! A dream of love 
Which could not look upon so fair a thing, 
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like spring, 
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move. 
And deem that men indeed, in very truth, 
Coitid mean the sting of death for her soft flower- 
ing youth ! 



He wooed her back to life. " Sweet Inez, Hve ! 
My bless6d Inez ! — visions have beguiled 
Thy heart ; abjure them ! thou wert formed to 

give 
And to find joy ; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever ? Leave me not, mine own ! 
Or earth will grow too dark ! — for thee alone. 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest ! from a 

child, 
And bore thine image with me o'er the sea, 
Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak ! O, yet live 

for me ! " 



She looked up wildly ; there were anxious eyes 
Waiting that look — sad eyes of troubled 

thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's ! Did her childhood rise, 
With all its pure and home affections fraught. 
In the brief glance ? She clasped her hands — 

the strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak 
Must, in the rending storm, not quiver only — 

break ! 



And thus it was. The young cheek flushed 

and faded, 
As the swift blood in currents came and went, 
And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded, 
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent 
Through its white fluttering lids. Then trem- 
blings passed 
O'er the frail form, that shook it as the blast 
^Hftkes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent 



Its way to peace — the fearful way uni.noTni. 
Pale in love's arms she lay — she ! — what had 
loved was gone ! 

LXIII. 

Joy for thee, trembler ! — thou redeemed one, 

joy! 
Young dove set free ! — earth, ashes, soullesi 

clay. 
Remained for baffled vengeance to destroy. 
Thy chain was riven ! Nor hadst thou cast away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! — though love waa 

there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, 
And life seemed robed in beautiful array. 
Too fair to leave ! — but this might be forgiven. 
Thou wert so richly crowned with precious gifts 

of Heaven ! 



But woe for him who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain 
Breaking on his ! Scarce could the mortal chill 
Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye, 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die — 
That she indeed could die ! — for, wild and vain 
As hope might be, his soul had hope'd : 'twas 

o'er — 
Slowly his falHng arms dropped from the form 

they bore. , 

LXV. 

They forced him from that spot. It might be 

well, 
That the fierce reckless words by anguish wrung 
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell. 
Like spray drops from the strife of torrents flung. 
Were marked as guilt. There are who note 

these things 
Against the smitten heart ; its breaking strings 
— On whose low thrills once gentle music 

hung — 
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying. 
And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange 

tones replying. 



But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair ! 
Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust ; 
I saw your features by the torch's glare, 
And they were brightening with a heavenwaid 

trust ! 
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay, 
Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away ; 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



1%. 



A.nd peace was there - - the calmness of the just ! 
Ajid, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss, 
"Thy rest is won," he said, "sweet sister! 
Praise for this ! " 

LXTII. 

I started as from sleep ; — yes ! — he had 

spoken — 
A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source ! 
KX once the torpor of my soul was broken — 
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force, 
riiere are soft breathings in the southern wind, 
rhal so your ice chains, O ye streams ! unbind, 
And free the foaming swiftness of your course ! 
[ burst from those that held me back, and fell 
Rven on his neck, and cried — " Friend ! broth- 
er ! fare thee well ! " 

LXVIII. 

Did he not say, ' Farewell " ? Alas ! no breath 
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the 

throng 
Told that the mysteries in the face of death 
Had from their eager sight been veiled too 

long. 
And we were parted as the surge might part 
Those that would die together, true of heart. 
His hour was come — but in mine anguish strong, 
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea. 
Blindly I rushed away from that which was to be. 



(dway — away I rushed ; but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew. 
Till the transparent darkness of the sky 
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in theu- hue ; 
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seemed 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they 

streamed. 
With their wild splendor chasing me ! I knew 
The death work was begun — I veiled mine eyes. 
Yet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the 

victims' cries. 



What heard I then ? — a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as forever haunts the tortured ear ? 
I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain 
Piercing the flame, untremulous and clear ! 
The rich, triumphal tones ! — I knew them well. 
As thoy came floating with a breezy swell ! 
Man's voice was there — a clarion voice to cheer 
In ihe mid battle — ay, to turn \.he flying ; 
Woman's — that might have sung of heaven be- 
side th? dying ! 



It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream ol' melody could spring 
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe ! 
Alvar ! Theresa ! — what is deep r what strong 
— God's breath within the soul ! It filled tha 

song 
From your victorious voices ! But the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased : 
Faint grew the sounds — more faint : I listeneo 

— they had ceased ! 

LXXII. 

And thou indeed hadst perished, my soul's 

friend ! 
I might form other ties — but thou alone 
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, 
By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown ! 
Others might aid me onward; thou and I 
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, 
Once flowering — never more ! And thou wert 

gone ! 
Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, 
Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me ! 

LXXIII. 

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave ! 
I could not weep — there gathered round thj 

name 
Too deep a passion. Thoxi denied a grave ! 
Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame ! 
Had I not known thy heart from childhood's 

time : 
Thy heart of hearts ? — and couldst thou die fo7 

crime ? 
No ! had all earth decreed that death -oi shame, 
I would have set, against all earth's decree, 
Th' inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee ! 

LXXIV. 

There are swift hours in life — strong, rushing 

hours. 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks ano 

towers 
Unto th' undoubting mind ; they pour in light 
Where it but startles — like a burst of day 
For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way , 
They sweep the coloring mists from off our sight ; 
They touch with fire thought's graven page, the 

roll 
Stamped with past years — and lo it shriveii 

as a scroll 1 



388 



THE FOREST SAXCTUARY. 



LXXV. 

A.nd this was of such hours ! The sudden flow 
Of my soul's tide seemed whelming me ; the 

glare 
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, 
Scorched up my heart with breathless thirst 

for air, 
And solitude, and freedom. It had been 
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene. 
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear 
On with them, wildly questioning the sky. 
Fiercely the untroubled stars, of man's dim 

destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I would have called, adjuring the dark cloud ; 
To the most ancient heavens I would have said, 
•• Speak to me ! show me truth ! " ^ — through 

night aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
" Come back ! and show me truth ! " My spirit 

seemed 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teemed 
With such pent storms of thought ! Again I 

fled, 
[ fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, 
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely 

fane. 

LXXVII. 

A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast ! 
Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor 
Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, 
A memory of the sainted steps that wore 
Ere while its gorgeous pavement, seemed to brood 
Like mist upon the stately solitude ; 
A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er 
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men ; 
And all was hushed as night in some deep Alpine^ 
glen. 



More hushed, far more ! — for there the wind 

sweeps by. 
Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play ; 
Here a strange echo made my very sigh 
Beem for the place too much a sound of day ! 
Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, 

fading. 
Vet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading. 

1 For one of the most powerful and impressive pictures 
perhaps ever drawn, of a young mind struggling against 
''abit and superstition in its first aspirations after truth, see 
■*ie admirable Lftlers from Spain by Don Leuradio Dvhlado. 



And I stood still : prayer, chant had died away 
Yet past me floated a funereal breath 
Of incense. I stood still — as before God an i 
death. 

LXXIX. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed ! 
Dust — imaged forms — ^^^.th cross, and shield, 

and crest ; 
It seemed as if your ashes would have started 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 
Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore 
Bear to your thrilling presence what / bore I 

Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast ! 
I could have poured out words, on that pale air. 
To make your proud tombs ring. No, no ! I 

could not there! 

LXXX. 

Not 'midst those aisles, through which a thou- 
sand years, 
Mutely as clouds, and reverently', had swept ; 
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears 
And kneeling votaries on their marble kept ! 
Y'e were too mighty in your pomp of gloom 
And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb ! 
And you, ye dead ! — for in that faith ye slept. 
Whose weight had grown a mountain's orv my 

heart. 
Which could not there be loosed. I turned me 
to depart. 



I turned : what glimmered faintly on my sight - 
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ? The moon, the 

night. 
Had waned, and down poured m — gra} , 

shadowy, slow, 
Yet dayspring still ! A solemn hue it caaght 
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; 
And, soft and sad, that coloring gleam was thrown 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar 

shone. 

2 " You walk from end to end over a floor of tombstones 
inlaid in brass with the forms of the departed, mitres, and 
crosiers, and spears, and shields, and helmets, all mingled 
together — all worn into glass-like smoothness by the feel 
and the knees of long-departed worshippers. Around, on 
eveiy side, each in their separate chapel, sleep undisturbed 
from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest or the 
loftiest that of old came thither to worship— their imagei 
and their dying prayers sculptured among the resting-places 
of their remains " — From a beautiful description of ancien' 
Spanish Cathedrals, in Petcr^s Letters to his Kin^olk 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



LXXXII. 

Thy form, tliou Son of God ! — a -wTathful deep, 
With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee 

spread, 
And such a weigh t of night ! — a night, when 

sleep 
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. 
A bark showed dim beyond Thee, with its mast 
Bowed, and its rent sail shivering to the blast ; 
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread, 
Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea 
Through rushing winds, which left a silent path 

for Thee. 

LXXXIII. 

So still thy white robes fell ! — no breath of air 
Within their long and slumberous folds had sway. 
So still the wa • es of parted, shadowy hair 
From thy cleai brow flowed droopingly away ! 
Dark were the heavens above thee. Savior ! — 

dark 
The gulfs, Deliverer ! round the straining bark ! 
But Thou ! — o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was poured one stream of pale, broad, silvery 

Ught: 
Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding 

night! 



Aid for one sinking ! Thy lone brightness 

gleamed 
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave. 
With its worn, fearful, human look, that seemed 
To cry, through surge and blast — "I perish — 

save ! " 
Not to the winds — not vainly ! Thou wert nigh. 
Thy hand was stretched to fainting agony. 
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave ! 
Thou that art the life ! and yet didst bear 
Toe much of mortal woe to turn from mortal 

prayer ! 

LXXXV. 

But was it nof a thing to rise on death. 
With its remembered light, that face of thine. 
Redeemer ! dimmed by this world's misty breath. 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine ? 
0, that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye. 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty ! 
And the pale glory of the brow ! — a shrine 
Where power sat veiled, yet shedding softly 

round 
What told tha. Thou couldst be but for a time 

iincrowred ! 



And, more than all, the heaven of that sa(? 

smile ! 
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust ! 
Did not that look, that very look, ere while 
Pour its o'ershadowed beauty on the dust r 
Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloiU"i 

hung o'er Thee r — 
Surely thou wert ! My heart grew hushed befo« 

Thee, 
Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust 
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way : 
What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, 

and pray ? 



Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry, 
Amidst the dead — " By that full cup of woe, 
Pressed from the fruitage of mortality, 
Savior ! for Thee — give light ! that I may 

know 
If by thy will, in thine all-healing name, 
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame, 
And early death ; and say, if this be so, 
Where, then, is mercy ? Whither shall we 

flee, 
So unallied to hope, save h\ our hold on Thee! 

LXXXVIII. 

*• But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly 

treading, 
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave \ 
And wert Thou not, sad tears, yet aAvful, shed- 
ding. 
Beheld a weeper at a mortal's grave ? 
And is this weight of anguish, which they biiw' 
On life — this searing to the quick of mind, 
That but to God its own free path would crave — 
This crushing out of hope, and love, anc 

youth. 
Thy will, indeed ! Give light ! that I may kiioiv 
the truth 1 

LXXXIX. 

«' For my sick soul is darkened unto death, 
With shadows from the suffering it hath seen 
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith 
Sink from beneath me — whereon shall I lean ? 
O, if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh 
Of the dust's anguish ! if like man to die — 
And earth round him shuts heavily — hath bees 
Even to Tliee bitter, aid me ! guide me 1 turn 
My wild and wandering thoughts back frcnr 
their starless bourn \ " 



id) 



L"IIE FORESl b^NCTUARY. 



And calmed I ros*^ : but hf)>»' tHe while had risen 
Morn's orient sun, dissolving va^t ard shade ! 
Could there indeed be "i\Tong, or chain, or prison, 
Cn the bright world such radiance raiffht pervade ? 
£t filled the fane, it mantled the pale ^orm 
Which rose before me through the pictiired s^orm. 
E'en the gray tombs it kindled, and arr^^yed 
With life ! — How hard to see thy race beg;-»n. 
And think man wakes to grief, wakenmg to ^fK-e, 
Sun! 



I sought my home again ; and thou, my chL'<l, 
There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter * hat\ 

beguiled 
A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine ; 
Ihou in thy mother's arms, a babe, didst meet 
My coming with young smiles, which yet, 

though sweet, 
Seemed on my soul all mournfully to shine. 
And ask a happier heritage for thee. 
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. 



Now sport, for thou art free ! the bright bu'ds 

chasing, 
Whose wings waft starlike gleams from tree to 

tree ; 
Or with the fawn, thy swift wood playmate, 

racing, 
Sport on, my joyous child ! for thou art free ! 
Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart. 
And inly vowed for thee a better part 
To choose ; that so thy sunny bursts of glee 
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen 

woe. 
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on — as now 

they flow, 

XCIII. 

Thou hast a rich world round thee — mighty 

shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head. 
With the light melting through their high arcades, 
As through a pillared cloister's ; * but the dead 



1 " El' lampeggiar de I'angelico riso." — Petrarch. 

2 " Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep shades 
»f moss-grown forests, whose gloom and interlaced boughs 
first suggested that Gothic architecture beneath whose 
x>ii ted arches, where they had studied and prayea, the 
')any-colorcd windows slied a tinged light ; scenes which 
^e gbams of sunshine, penetrating tlie deep foliage, and 



Sleep not beneath ; nor doth the sunbeam pass 
To marble shrines through lainbow-tinted glass 
Yet thou, by fount and forest murmur led 
To worship, thou art blest ! to thee is shown 
Earth in her holy pomp, decked for b^ Qofl 
alone. 



PART II. 

Wie diese treue liebe Seele 
Von ihrem Glauben voll, 
Der ganz allein 

Ihr selig machend ist, sich heilig quale, 
Das sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten BolL — Fa .♦ 

I never shall smile more — but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my souL — Wilsoit. 

I ^' 

I .^r^X"^ me the sounding of the torrent water, 
WHb yet s nearer swell ! Fresh breeze, awake ! 
And rivei. darkening ne'er with hues of slaugh- 
ter 
Thy wave's pure silvery green ; and shining lak^ 
Spread far before my pab:n, with thy zone 
Of ancient woocU, ve <?ha'nlcss tJ^ings and lone . 
Send voices thrpugh the forest aisles, and make 
Glad music round me- that my soul may dare, 
Cheered by such tones, to l^ok back on a duii' 
geon's air ! 



O Indian hunter of the desert's race ! 
That -with the spear, at times, or bended bow, 
Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chase 
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flpng roe ; 
Thou that beside the red night fire thou heapest, 
Beneath the cedars and the starlight sleepest, 
Thou know'st not, wanderer never mayst thou 

know ! — 
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth, 
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' 

mirth. 



There, fettered down from day, to think the whilf 
How bright in heaven the festal sun is glowing, 

flickering on the variegated tun below, might have rccallefl 
to their memorj'."— Webster's Oration on the Landing of 

the Pilgrim Fathers in New England See Hodgson'i 

Letters from J^orth America, vol. ii. p. 305. 

3 The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in 
an interesting work of Mrs. Grant's : " On the opposite side 
the view was hounded by steep hills, covered with lofty 
pines, from which a waterfall descended, which not onlj 
gave animation to the sylvan scene, but was the best ba- 
rometer imaginable ; foreielling by its varied and intclligibU 
sounds every ajjproaching change, not only of lije weaOiei 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



391 



Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile, 
Plush like the rose ; and how the streams are 

flowiug 
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass, 
And water flowers, all trembling as they pass ; 
And how the rich, dark summer trees are bowing 
With their full foliage : this to know, and pine 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot 

— 'twas mine ! 

IV. 

Wherefore was this ? Because my soul had drawn 
tight from the Book whose words are graved in 

light ! 
There, at its well head, had I found the da^-n, 
And day, and noon of freedom ; but too bright 
It shines on that which man to man hath given. 
And called the truth — the very truth, from 

heaven ! 
And therefore seeks he in his brother's sight 
lo cast the mote ; and therefore strives to bind, 
With his strong chains, to earth what is not 

earth's — the mind. 



It is a weary and a bitter task 

Back from the lip the burning word to keep, 

And to shut out heaven's air with falsehood's 

mask. 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings ; making e'en of thought 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad, and night, and sleep. 
I might not brook it long, and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. 



And I, a child of danger, whose delights 
"Were on dark hills and many-sounding seas — 
I, that amidst the Cordillera heights 
Had given Castilian banners to the breeze, 
And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows ; * and in my country been 
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees 
f D the Morena crags — how left I not 
Life or the soul's life, quenched on that sepul- 
chral spot ? 



Because Thcv, didst not leave me, O my God ! 
Thou wert -with those that bore the truth of old 

tat of Vhe wind." — Memoirs of an American Lady, vol. i. 
p 143. 

1 The circular rainbows, oaasionally seen amongst ihe 
• ndes, are described by UUoa 



Into the deserts from th' oppressor's rod. 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold , 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead, 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed ; 
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with Thee ; and 

Thou 
Wert in the midst, felt, owned — the Strength- 

ener then, as now ! 



Yet once I sank. Alas ! man's wavering mind I 
Wherefore and w^hence the gusts that o'er iv 

blow ? 
How they bear with them, floating uncombined, 
The shadows of the past, that come and go, 
As o'er the deep the old, long-buried things 
Which a storm's working to the surface brings. 
Is the reed shaken — and must we be so. 
With every wind ? So, Father, must we be, 
Till we can fix undimmed our steadfast eyes o*- 

Thee. 



Once my soul died within me. What had thrown 
That sickness o'er it? Even a passing thought 
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'er- 

grown. 
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought ! 
Perchance the damp roof's water drops thai 

fell 
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell. 
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught 
Some tone fi-om memory of the music welling 
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rockv 

dwellins:. 



But so my spirit's fevered longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint, sad sound. 
That from the darkness of the walls they brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around.* 

2 Many striking instances of the vividness with which th« 
mind, when strongly excited, has been known to renovaf* 
past impressions, and embody them into visible incagery, ar« 
noticed and accounted for in Dr. Hibbert's Philosophy oj 
Apparitions. The following illustrative passage isquoted in 
the same work, from the writings of the late Dr. Ferriar: — 
" I remember that, about the age of fourteen, it was a source 
of great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing any 
interesting object in the course of the day, such as a roman- 
tic ruin, a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon 
as evening came on, if I had occasion to go into a dark 
room, the whole scene was brought before my eyes witl 
a brilliancy equal to what it had possessed in daylight 
and remained visible for several minutes. I have no doub( 
that dismal and frightful images have been tnus oresenteo 



132 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



sfes ! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by 

hue, 
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom, it 

grew. 
That haunt of youth, hope, manhood ! till the 

bound 
Of my shut cavern seemed dissolved, and I 
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of 



I looked — and lo ! the clear, broad river flowing 
Past tht old Moorish ruin on the steep. 
The lone u "er dark against a heaven all glow- 
ing, 
Like seas of glass and fire ! I saw the sweep 
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side. 
And their still shadows in the gleaming tide. 
And the red evening on its waves asleep ; 
And 'midst the scene — 0, more than all ! — 

there smiled 
My child's fair face, and hers, the mother of my 
child! 



With their soft eyes of love and gladness 

raised 
Up to the flushing sky, ass when we stood 
Last by that river, and in sUence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset. But a flood 
Of sudden tenderness my soul oppressed ; 
And I rushed forward, with a yearning breast. 
To clasp — alas ! — a vision ! "Wave and wood, 
And gentle faces, lifted in the light 
Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from my 

sight. 



Then darkness ! — O, th' unutterable gloom 
That seemed as narrowing round me, making less 
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom. 
That bright dream vanished from my loneliness ! 

to young persons after scenes of domestic affliction or public 
horror." 

The following passage from the Alcazar of Seville, a tale 
or historical sketch, by the author of Doblado^s Letters, 
affords a further illustration of this subject. " When de- 
scending fast into the vale of years, I strongly fix my mind's 
eye on those narrow, shady, silent streets, where I breathed 
ihe scented air which came rustling through the surround- 
ing groves ; where the footsteps reechoed from the clean 
watered porches of the houses, and where every object spoke 

if quiet and contentment ; the objects 

nround me begin to fade into a mere delusion, and not only 
the thoughts, hut the external sensations, which I then ex- 
perienced, revive with a reality that almost makes me shud- 
'or — it has so much the character of a trance or vision." 



It floated off, the beautiful ! yet left 
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft, 
I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess. 
And prayed to die. How oft would sorrow weep 
Her weariness to death, if he might come liki 
sleep ! 



But I was roused — and how ? It is no tale, 
Even 'midst tk^j shades, thou wilderness ! to tell. 
I would not have my boy's young cheek made 

pale, 
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befell 
In that drear prison house. His eye must grow 
More dark with thought, more earnest his fail 

brow. 
More high his heart in youthful strength must 

swell ; 
So shall it fitly burn when all is told : 
Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet 

infold. 



It is enough that through such heavy hours 
As wring us by our fellowship of clay, 
I lived, and undegraded. We have powers 
To snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away ! 
Shall the wild Indian for his savage fame 
Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth's high 

name 
Bear up her martjTS with all-conquering sway } 
It is enough that torture may be vain : 
I had seen Alvar die — the strife was won from 

Pain. 



And faint not, heart of man ! Though years 

wane slow. 
There have been those that from the deepest 

caves, 
And cells of night, and fastnesses below 
The stormy dashing of the ocean waves, 
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have 

nursed 
A quenchless hope, and watched their time, and 

burst 
On the bright day, like wakeners from the 

graves ! 
I was of such at last ! — unchained I trod 
This green earth, taking back my freedom from 

my God ' 



That was an hour to send its fadeless tiace 
Down life's far-sweeping tide ! iV dim, wild nigrht 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY, 



3(^< 



Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face, 
Yet how my heart leaped in her blessed light ! 
The shepherd's Hght — the sailor's on the sea — 
The hunter's homeward from the mountains free, 
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright 
The thousand streams ! — I could but gaze 

through tears. 
0, what a sight is heaven, thus first beheld for 

years ! 



The rolling clouds i — they have the whole blue 

space 
Above to sail in — all the dome of sky ! 
My soul shot with them in their breezy race 
O'er star and gloom ; but I had yet to fly. 
As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot 
And strange I knew — the sunbeam knew it 

not, — 
Wildest of all the savage glens that lie 
In far sierras, hiding their deep springs. 
And traversed but by storms, or sounding ea- 
gles' wings. 



Ay, and I met the storm there ! I had gained 
The covert's heart with swift and stealthy tread : 
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rained 
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head ; 
A moan — a hollow gust — and there I stood 
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood, 
And foaming water. — Thither might have fled 
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore, 
When Afric's tambour shook the ringing west- 
ern shore. 



But through the black ravine the storm came 

swelling : 
— Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast ! 
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling. 
Like plumes upon the path of battle cast ! 
A rent oak thundered down beside my cave, 
Booming it rushed, as booms a deep sea wave ; 
A falcon soared ; a startled wild deer passed ; 
A far-ofl" bell tolled faintly thr-^ugh the roar. 
How my glad spirit swept forth with the vdnds 

once more ! 



And with the arrowy lightnings I — for they 

flashed, 
Bmiting the branches in their fitful play, 
And brightly shivering where the torrents 

dashed 

60 



Up, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray ! 
And there to stand amidst the jjealing strife, 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuoui 

life. 
And all the mountain voices on their way, — 
Was it not joy ? 'Twas joy in rushing might, 
After those years that wove but one long dead 

of night ! 

XXII. 

There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon, 
And lit me to my home of youth again. 
Through the dim chestnut shade, where oft a1 

noon, 
By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain 
In gentle sleep. But now I passed as one 
That may not pause where wood streams whis 

pering run. 
Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain ; 
Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind. 
The foe's quick, rustling step close on the leases 

behind 

xxin. 
My home of youth ! O, if indeed to pari 
With the soul's loved ones be a mournful thinj^ 
When we go forth in buoyancy of heart. 
And bearing all the glories of our spring 
For life to breathe on — is it less to meet. 
When these are faded ? — who shall call it sweet J 
E'en though love's mingling tears may haply 

bring 
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers 
Teach us how much is lost of all that once was* 



Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow, 
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laugRing 

sky. 
Nor the fair flower scents,^ as they come and go 
In the soft air, like music wandering by ; 
— O, not by these, th' unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have 

wrought ; 
But by the saddened eye, the darkened brow 
Of kindred aspect, and the long dim gaze, 
Which tells us we are changed — how changed 

from other days ! 

1 " For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the 
aire (where it comes and goes like the warbling of musickj 
than in the hand, therefore notiiing is more fit for that 
delight than to know what be tlie flowers and plants whick 
doe best perfume the aire." — TiOBn Bacon^b ( tin m 
Gardens. 



'94 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Befort,' my father, in my place of birth, 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
WTiich oft had trembled to my boyish mirth. 
The love that reared me knew my face no more ! 
There hung the antique armor, helm and crest, 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast ; 
There drooped the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears ; and I, the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was I ? — another and 
the same ! 



Ti-en bounded in a boy, with clear, dark eye — 
How should he know his father ? When we 

parted. 
From the soft cloud which mantles infancy, 
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted 
Its first looks round. Him followed one, the 

bride 
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried ! 
Her glance met mine — I could not speak — she 

started 
With a bewildered gaze — until there came 
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her 

name. 

XXVII. 

She knew me then ! I murmured " Leonor! " 
And her heart answered ! O, the voice is known 
First from all else, and swiftest to restore 
Love's buried images, with one low tone 
That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is 

faded. 
And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded, 
And all the brightness from the aspect gone ! 
— Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was 

fled, 
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe 

and dread. 

XXVIII. 

For there we might not rest. Alas ! to leave 
Those native towers, and know that they must 

fall 
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve 
When the weeds clustered on the lonely wall ! 
We were the last — my boy and I — the last 
Of along line which brightly thence had passed ! 
My father blessed me as I left his hall — 
With his deep tones and sweet, though full of 

years, 
He blessed mg i.here, and bathed my child's 

young head with tears. 



I had brought sorrow on his gray hails down. 
And cast the darkness of my branded name 
(For so he deemed it) on the clear renown, 
My own ancestral heritage of fame. 
And yet he blessed me ! Father ! if ihe dust 
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit's trust 
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame • 
Dim the bright day no more ; and thou wil{ 

know 
That not through guilt thy son thus bowed thin« 

age with woe ! 



And thou, my Leonor ! that unrepining, 
If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me, 
When stars, the stars that earliest rise, are shin- 
ing, 
How their soft glance unseals each thought of 

thee! 
For on our flight they smiled ; their dewy rays, 
Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze 
Back to the home we never more might see. 
So passed we on, like earth's first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above theii 
Eden burning. 



It was a woe to say, " Farewell, my Spain ! 
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell ! " 
— I could have died upon the battle plain 
For thee, my country ! but I might not dwell 
In thy sweet vales, at peace. The voice of 

song 
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, th\ hills along ; 
The citron's glow is caught from iha^le and 

dell: 
But what are these ? upon thy flowery sod 
I might not kneel, and pour my fi-ee thoughts 

out to God ! 



O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep ! 
Strange heart of man ! that e'en midst -voe swelii 

high, 
When through the foam he sees his proud barl 

sweep. 
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 
Yes ! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind, 
His spirit rit.os with the rising wind ; 
For, wedded to the far futurity. 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main 
Seems rushin,?,, like his hope, some happier shoif 

to gain.. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



380 



XXXIII. 

Not thus is woman. Closely f^r still heart 
Doth twine itself with e'en each lifeless thing 
Which, long remembered, seemed to bear its part 
In her calm joys. Forever would she cling, 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children 

birth, 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may 

spring 
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, 
But hath its breath of home, its claim to fare- 
well grief. 

xxxrv. 
I looked on Leonor, — and if there seemed 
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise 
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleamed. 
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes, 
Misty with tender gloom, I called it nought 
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought 
Of her own vale, with all its melodies 
And living light of streams. Her soul would rest 
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gor- 
geous West ! 

XXXV. 

O, could we live in visions ! could we hold 
Delusion faster, longer, to our breast. 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold, 
That which we see not, and are therefore blest ! 
But they, our loved and loving — they to whom 
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom, 
Their looks and accents, unto ours addressed, 
Have been a language of familiar tone 
loo long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and 
unknown. 

XXXVI. 

I told my heart, 'twas but the exile's woe 
Which pressed on that sweet bosom ; I deceived 
My heart but half : a whisper, faint and low. 
Haunting it ever, and at times believed. 
Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem 
Like those that dreant, and know the while they 

dream — 
'Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved 
And troubled, while bright phantoms round 

them play, 
By a dim sense that all will float and fade away ! 

XXXVII. 

iTet, as if chasing joy, I wooed the breeze 
to speed me onward with the wings of mom. 



(), far amidst the solitary seas, 

Whicl were not made for man, what man hatb 

borne, 
Answoring their moan with his ! — what thar% 

didst bear. 
My lost and loveliest ! while that secret care 
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn 
By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last; 
Beholding me as one from hope forever cast ' 



For unto thee, as through all change, revealed 
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes 
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield, 
To fei.ce my burning bosom, of disguise ; 
By th(! still hope sustained, ere long to win 
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within 
My thoughts unfettered to their source migh 

rise. 
Like songs and scents of morn. But thou didst 

look 
Through all my soul, and thine e'en unto faint 

ing shook. 

XXXIX. 

Fallen, fallen, I seemed — yet, O, not less be- 
loved, 
Though from thy love was plucked the early 

pride. 
And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved. 
And seared with shame ! Though each young 

flower had died, 
There was the root, — strong, living, not the 

less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness ; 
Yet still such love as quits not misery's side, 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic 
face. 



Yes ! thou hadst followed me through fear and 

flight ! 
Thou wouldst have followed had my pathway 

led 
E'en to the scaffold ; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with 

dread, 
Thou, 'midst the hush of thousands, woulds»t 

have been 
AVith thy clasped hands beside me kneeling seer 
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head - 
The shame ! — O, making beautiful to view 
The might of human love — fair thing ! so brav*-* 

ly true 1 



J90 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



There was thine agony — to love so well 
Where fear made love life's chastener. Hereto- 
fore, 
Whate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell, 
Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soar 
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak 
Most of the skies when grief most touched thy 

cheek. 
Now, that far brightness faded, never more 
Couldst thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy 

heart, 
Since at heavQji's gate it seemed that thou and 
I must part. 



Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance — 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirred) — 
A flush — a fading of the cheek, perchance — 
A word — less, less — the cadence of a word. 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath, 
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with 

death ! 
E'en thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. I knew that in thj'- sight 
I stood, howe'er beloved, a recreant from the 

light. 



Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
O, the deep soul it breathed ! — the love, the woe. 
The fervor, poured in that full gush of song. 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all their vesper voices, o'er the main. 
Which, seemed responsive in its murmuring flow. 
'♦ Ave, ianctissima ! " — how oft that laj' 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr strength 
away ! 

Ave, sanctissima ! 
'Tis nightfall on the sea ; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee ! 

Watch us, while shadows lie 
O'er the dim waters spread ; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh — 
Thine too hath bled ! 

Thou that hast looked on death, 
Aid us when death is near ! 

W^hisper of heaven to faith ; 
Sweet Mother, hear ! 



Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave mvist rock our sleep, 

Ora, Mater, ora ! 
Thou star of the deep ! 

XLIV. 

" Ora pro nobis, Mater ! " — What a spell 

Was in those notes, with day's last glory dyiii| 

On the flushed waters — seemed they not tc 

swell 
From the far dust wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword ? O, yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear ' 
" Ora" — with all the purple waves replying, 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
And I had thought it much to bear the rack and 

chain ! 



Torture ! the sorrow of affection's eye. 
Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core, 
Deeper, and teaching more of agony, 
May pierce than many swords ! — and this I bore 
W^ith a mute pang. Since I had vainly striven 
From its free springs to pour the truth of heaven 
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor ! 
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could 

share : 
Alas ! for those that love, and may not blend in 

prayer ! 



We could not pray together 'midst the deep. 
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay, 
Through days of splendor, nights too bright foi 

sleep. 
Soft, solemn, holy ! We were on our way 
Unto the mighty Cordillera land, 
With men whom tales of that world's golden 

strand 
Had lured to leave their vines. O, who shall say 
What thoughts rose in us, when the tropic sky 
Touched all its molten seas with sunset' i 

alchemy ! 



Thoughts no more mingled ! Then came night 

— th' intense 
Dark blue — the burning stars ! I saw thee shine 
Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 
O Southern Cross ! • as when thy radiant sign 



1 " The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cnm 
was warmly sliared by such of the crew as had lived in Uk 
colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we h- jl a star an 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



39: 



First drew my gaze of youth. No, not as then ; 
I had been stricken by the darts of men 
Since those fresh days ; and now thy light di- 
vine 
Looked on mine anguish, while within me strove 
The still small voice against the might of suf- 
fering love. 

XLVIII. 

Hut thou, the clear, the glorious ! thou wert 

pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave, 
While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring. 
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave ! 
Alas ! I watched her dark religious glance, 
As it still sought thee through the heaven's ex- 
panse, 
Bright Cross ! and knew not that I watched 

what gave 
But passing lustre — shrouded soon to be — 
A soft light found no more — no more on earth 
or sea ! 

XLIX. 

I knew not all — yet something of unrest 
Sat on my heart. Wake, ocean wind ! I said : 
"Waft us to land, in leafy freshness dressed, 
Where, through rich clouds of foliage o'er her 

head, 
I Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by, 
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie 
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread ! 
But the calm bound us 'midst the glassy main : 
Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flowers 

again. 



Yes ! as if heaven upon the waves were sleeping. 
Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay, 

friend from whom we have long been separated. Among 
the Portuguese and the Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to 
increase this feeling ; a religious sentiment attaches them 
to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the 
*a;th planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New 

W^orld It has been observed at what hour 

of the night, in different seasons, the Cross of the South is 
»K^. M inclined. It is a timepiece that advances very reg- 
ulaily near four minutes a day, and no other group of stars 
exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so easily 
made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim, in the 
savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from 
Lima to Truxillo, ' Midnight is past — the Cross begins to 
bend ! ' How often these words reminded us of that affect- 
ing scene where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source 
of the river of Lataniers, conversed together for the last 
time ; and where the old man, at the sight of the Southern 
Cross, warns them that it is time to separate ! " — De Hum- 
boldt's Travels. 



All moveless, through their blue transj arenc« 

keeping 
The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; 
While she O, strongest is the strong heart's 

woe — 
And yet I live ! I feel the sunshine's glow — 
Ana I am he that looked, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adored too 

much ! — 
It is a fearful thing to love what death raay 

touch. 



A fearful thing that love and death ma}' cJ-well 
In the same world ! She faded on — and I, 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
My trusting soul that she cotild fade to die ! 
Yet, ere she parted, I had marked a change ; 
But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, thougi 

strange : 
Something of gladness in the melody 
Of her low voice, and in her words a flight 
Of airy thought — alas ! too perilously brigh^ ' 



And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all-wondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 
How could it thus deceive me ? She had 

worn 
Around her, like the dew^- mists of n^orn, 
A pensive tenderness, through happiest days ; 
And a soft world of dreams had seemed to Hp 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye 



And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she 

died. 
She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! 
The day was melting from the waters wide. 
And through its long bright hours her thoughts 

had been, 
It seemed, with restless and unwonted yearn- 
ing, 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turn- 
ing ; 
For her fond words were all of vintage scene. 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath: 
O, with what vivid hues life comes back oft ok 
death ! 



And from her lips the mountain songs of old 
In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung ; 



^98 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY 



Song3 of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The " Rio verde" ' on her soul that hung, 
And thence flowed forth. But now the sun 

was low, 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft *< Ora, Mate)- ! " and the sound 
Was e'en like love's farewell — so mournfully 

profound. 



The boy had dropped to slumber at our feet ; 
•« And I hdve lulled him to his smiling rest 
Once more ! " she said. I raised him — it was 

sweet, 
Yet sad, to &ee the perfect calm, which blessed 
His look tha\ hour: for now her voice grew 

weak, 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek, 
With her whiie lips, a long, long kiss she 

pressed. 
Yet light, to wake him not. Then sank her head 
Against my bursting heart. What did I clasp ? 

— T)ka dead ! 



I called ! To call what answers not our cri'^s — 
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard — 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, 
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirred ; 
And in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze. 
All vainly searching for the parted rays — 
This is what wiiits us ! Dead ! — with that chill 

word 
To link our bosom names ! For this we pour 
Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 



But the true parting came ! I looked my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face : 
How could I think the lovely spirit passed 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? 
Yet a dim a^vfulness was on the brow — 
No ! not like sleep to look upon art thou. 
Death, Death ! She lay, a thing for earth's 

embrace. 
To cover with spring wreaths. For earth's ? — 

the wave, 
Th&t gives the bier no flowers, makes moan 

above her grave ! 

1 " Rio verde ! rio verde ! " the popular Spanish romance, 
mown to the English reader in Percy's translation : — 

" Gentle river I gentle river I 
Lo, thy streams ore stiiincd with gore ; 
Many a brave and noble captain 
Floats along thy willowed shore," etc 



LVtn. 

On the mid seas a knell ! — for man was therefc 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead 
A long, low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread — 
And the pale shining Southern Crafs on high, 
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky. 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn giewred 
Were these things round me ? Such o'er memory 

sweep 
Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of 

the deep. 



Then the broad, lonely sunrise ! — and the plash 
Into the sounding waves ! ^ Around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash, 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more, 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! No mark the proud seas keep, 
To show where he, that wept may pause again 
to weep ! 



So the depths took thee ! O, the sullen sense 
Of desolation in that hour compressed ! 
Dust going down, a speck, amidst th' immense 
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 
The trace a weed might leave there ! Dust ' - - 

the thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possessed, 
Thus sinking ! Love, joy, fear, all crushed to 

this — 
And the wide heaven so far — so fathomless 

th' abyss ! 



Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks 

lie low. 
What shall wake thence the dead ? Blest, blest, 

are they 
That earth to earth intrust, for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's 

clay 
Shall rise at last ; and bid the young flowers 

bloom 

2 De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a yojng Astu 
rian at sea, mentions the entreaty of tlie officiating priest 
that the body, which had been brought upon deck during 
the night, might not be committed to the waves until atrei 
sunrise, in order to pay it the last rites according to the usas 
of the Romi:^h Church. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



oi'<? 



ITiat waft a breath of hope around the tomb ; 

And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! 

But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered 

thee f 
Vain dreams ! -- O, art thou not where there is 

no more sea ? ' 

LXII. 

The wind rose free and singing : when forever, 
O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavor 
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to 

strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind ! Before our prow 
The white foam flashed — ay, joyously, and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 
Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart, 
And thy meek, sorrowing love — 0, where could 

that depart ? 

LXIII. 

I will not speak of woe ; I may not tell — 
Friend tells not such to friends — the thoughts 

which rent 
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell 
Across the billows to thy grave w^as sent, 
Thou, there most lonely ! He that sits above, 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even if blent 
With a vain worship ; for its close is dim 
Ever with grief which leads the wrung soul 

back to Him ! 

LXIY. 

And with a milder pang if now I bear 
To think of thee in thy forsaken rest, 
If from my heart be lifted the despair, 
The sharp remorse with healing influence 

pressed ; 
If the soft eyes that visit me in sleep 
Look not reproach, though still they seem to 

weep , 
It is that He my sacrifice hath blessed, 
And filled my bosom, through its inmost cell, 
With a deep chastening sense that all at last is 

well. 



Yes ! thou art now O, wherefore doth the 

thought 
Of the wave dashing o'er t\ij long bright hair. 
The seaweed into its dark tresses wrought, 
Ihe sand thy pillow — thou that wert so fair ! 

» A -xf there was no more sea." — Revelation, xii. 1. 



Ccm^- o'er me still ? Earth, earth ! it is the \ -1.3 
Earth ever keeps on that of earthly mould ! 
But thou art breathing now in purer air, 
I Avell believe, and freed from all of error, 
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet Vif 
with terror. 



And if the love, which here was passing light, 
Went with what died not — O that this w« 

knew. 
But this : that through the silence of the night, 
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true. 
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose> 
We are yet aught of what we were to those 
We call the dead ! Their passionate adieu, 
Was it but breath to perish ? Holier trust 
Be mine ! — thy love is there, but purified frcnc 

dust ! 

LXVIT. 

A thing all heavenly — cleared from that which 

hung 
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind ! 
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils 

flung 
A chain so darkly with its growth intwined. 
This is my hope ; though when the sunse. 

fades, 
When forests nock the midnight on their shades. 
When tones of wail are in the rising wind, 
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ; 
For the strong hours will sway this frail mor 

tality ! 



We have been wanderers since those days of woe, 
Thy boy and I. As wild birds tend their young 
So have I tended him — my bounding roe ! 
The high Peruvian solitudes among ; 
And o'er the Andes' torrents borne his form. 
Where our frail bridge had quivered 'midst tht 

storm.^ 
But there the war notes of my country rung. 

2 The bridges over many deep chasms amcngst the .\nc« 
are pendulous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoetit' 
plants. Their tremulous motion is thus alluded to in or« 
of the stanzas of Oertrude of Wyoming .- — 

" Anon some wilder portraiture he draws, 
Of nature's savage glories he would speak ; 
The loneliness of earth, that overawes. 
Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama driver on Peruvia's peak 
Nor voice nor living motion miu-ks around, 
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek. 
Or wild cane arch, men flung o'er gulf profound. 
That fluctuates when the storms of El Uorm/i- §ovnA • 



too 



niE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fied 
To hide in shades unpierced a marked and weary- 
head. 



But he went on in gladness — that fair child ! 
Save when at times his bright eye seemed to 

dream. 
And his young lips, which then no longer smiled. 
Asked of his mother. That was but a gleam 
Of memory, fleeting fast ; and then his play 
Through the wide llanos ' cheered again our way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream,' 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn, 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise music 

borne : 



So like a spirit's voice ! a harping tone. 
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear ; 
Such as might reach us from a world unknown, 
Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and 

fear ! 
'Twas sweet ; yet those deep southern shades 

oppressed 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves ; ^ I sighed to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage 

fanned. 
And turned to seek the wilds of the red hunt- 
er's land. 



And we have won a bower of refuge now. 
In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose 
Hatji cooled, like dew, the fever of my brow, 
And whose green oaks and cedars round me 

close 
As temple walls and pillars, that exclude 
Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude ; 
All, save the image and the thought of those 
Before us gone — our loved of early years, 
Gone where affection's cup hath lost the taste 

of tears. 

1 Llanos, or savannas, the great plains in South America. 

2 De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the 
Oronoco. Travellers have heard from time to time subter- 
raneous sounds proceed from them at sunrise, resembling 
those of an organ. He believes in the existence of this 
mysterious music, although not fortunate enough to have 
heard it himself j and thinks that it may be produced by 
currents of air issuing through the crevices. 

8 The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to 
the extreme stillness of the air in the equatorial regions of 
the New World, and particularly on the thickly-wooded 
ihores of the Oronoco. " In tills neighborhood," he says, 

no breath of wind ever agitates the follag" " 



LXXII. 
I see a star — eve's first bom ! — in whose ti ain 
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The ar- 
rowy spire 
Of the lone cypress, as of wood- girt fane, 
Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire ; 
The pine gives forth its odors, and the lake 
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake 
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre 
Is touched to answer ; its most secret tone 
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers 
all its own. 

Lxxni. 
And hark ! another murmur on the air, 
Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades ! 
That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear, 
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades 
With hollow, surge-like sounds, as from the bed 
Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead 
But they are far ! The low sun here pervades 
Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold 
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to be- 
hold, — 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous, yet full of gloom ! In such an hour, 
The vesper melody of dying bells 
Wanders through Spain, from each gray con- 
vent's tower 
O'er shining rivers poured and olive dells. 
By every peasant heard, and muleteer, 
And hamlet, round my home ; and I am here, 
Living again through all my life's farewells. 
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was 
spoken, [broken ! 

And sole I lift to heaven a sad heart - yet un- 

LXXV. 

In such an hour are told the hermit's «eads ; 
With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by : 
Peace be with all, whate'er their varying creeds, 
With all that send up holy thoughts on high ! 
Come to me, boy ! By Guadalquivir's vines. 
By every stream of Spain, as day declines, 
]Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky. 
We too will pray : nor yet \inhcard, my child 
Of Him whose voice loe hear at eve amidst th« 
wild. 



At eve? O, through all hours! From dark 

dreams oft 
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might 



ANNOTATIONS ON THE FOKEST SANCTUARY. 



40- 



r>f solitude, while thou art breathing soft, 
And low, my loved one ' on the breast of night. 
I look forth on the stars, the shadowy sleep 
Of forests, and the lake whose gloomy deep 
Sends up red sparkles to the fireflies' light : 
A lonely world ! e'en fearful to man's thought, 
But for His presence felt, Avhom here my soul 
hath sought. 

CSITICAL ANKOTATIONS ON " THE FOREST SAXCTUARY." 

["In the autiimn of lis-2'l sne oegan tne pueni wnicn, m 
point of finish and consecutiveness, if not in popularity, may 
be considered her principal work, and which she herself in- 
clined to look upon as iker besi. ' I am at present,' she wrote 
to one always interested in her literary occupations, ' en- 
gaged upon a poem of some length, the idea of which was 
suggested to nie by some passages in your friend Mr. Blanco 
White's delightful writings.i It relates to the sutferings of 
a Spanish Protestant, in the time of Pliilip the Second, and 
is supposed to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who es- 
capes to America. I am very much interested in my sub- 
ject, and hope to complete the poem in the course of the 
winter.' The progress of th^s work was watched with great 
interest in her domestic circle, and its touching descriptions 
would often extract a tribute of tears from the fireside audi- 
tors. When completed, a family consultation was held as 
to its name. Various titles were proposed and rejected, till 
tnat of ' The Forest Sanctuary ' was suggested by her broth- 
er, and finally decided upon. Thougli finished early in 
1625, the poem was not published till the following year, 
when it was brought out in conjunction with the ' Lays of 
Many Lands,' and a collection of miscellaneous pieces." — 
Memoir, p. 8L 

" Mrs. Hemans may be considered as the representative 
of a new school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her 
poetry discovers characteristics of the highest kind, which 
belong almost exclusively to that of later times, and have 
been the result of the gradual advancement, and especially 
the moral progress of mankind. It is only when man, un- 
der the influence of true reHgion, feels himself connected 
with whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers are 
fully developed. The poetr of an immortal being must be 
of a different character from iiat of an earthly being. But, 
in recurring to the classic pt, ts of antiquity, we find that in 
their conceptions the elemer ■ of religious faith was wanting. 
Their mythology was to tbft i no object of sober belief; and, 
had it been so, was adaptei .lot to produce but to annihilate 
devotion. They had no t. aght of regarding the universe 
as created, animated, and nled by God's all-powerful and 
omniscient goodness." — >:iOFEssoR Norton, in Christian 
Examiner 

" We will now say a ' w words of ' The Forest Sanc- 
tuary ;' but it so aboundij -/ith beauty, is so highly finished, 
and animated by so ger.c ' as a spirit of moral heroism, that 
we can do no jusfc* bo j ^t views of it in the narrow space 
which our limits alow ?is. A Spanish Protestant flies from 
wrsecution at hry..*' to religious liberty in America. He 
has imbibed thp. f/jitof our own fathers, and his mental 
struggles are des' /cei in verses, with which the descendants 
of the Pilgriir* 7 .11st know how to sympathize. We dare 
not enter on a . analysis. From one scene at sea, in the 
••cond part, w . will make a few extracts. The exile is 

1 " Letten from Spain, by Don Leucadio Doblado." 
51 



attended by his wife and child, but his wife remains true to 
the faith of her fathers. 

'Ora pro nobis, Mntcr I' what a spell 

Was in those notes,' etc 

"But we must cease making extracts, for we could not 
transfer all that is beautiful in the poem without transferring 
the whole." — JVorth jSmerican Revew, April, 1827. 

" Mrs. Hemans considered this poem as almost, if n«rt 
altogether, the best of her works. She would sometimes 
say, that in proportion to the prai«!e which had been bestowed 
upon other of her less carefully meditated and snorter com 
positions, she thought it had hardly met with its fair shart 
v'' •.jcc^ss . for it was the first continuous effort in which 
she dareu to write from the fulness of her own hean — '.o 
listen to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. 
The subject was suggested by a passage in one of the lettera 
of Don Leucadio Doblado, and was wrought upon by her 
with that eagerness and fervor which almost command cor- 
responding results. I have heard Mrs. Hemans say, that 
the greater part of this poem was written in no more pic 
ture.-que a retreat than a laundry, to which, as bejng de- 
tached from the house, she resorted to for undisturbed quiet 
and leisure. When she read it, while in progress, to het 
mother and sister, they were surprised to tears at the in- 
creased power displayed in it. She was not prone to speak 
with self-contentment of her own works, but, perhaps, tin 
one favorite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea 
burial in the second canto, — 

' She lay a thing for earth's embrace,' etc. 

" The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition — 
the Auto da Fe, the dungeon, the flight, or in its delineatios 
of the mental conflicts of its hero — or in its forest pictures 
of the free West, which offer such a delicious repose to thi- 
mind, is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. 
Four lines of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as i 
write, too strongly to be passed by. They are from a char 
acter of one of the martyr sisters. 

' And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar.* 

*' But the entire episode of Queen-like Theresa — radiant 
Inez,' is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse which 
men of renown have failed to reach. The death of the lat- 
ter, if, perhaps, it be a little too romantic for the stern reali- 
ties of the scene, is so beautifully told, that u cannot L 
read without strong feeling, nor carelessly reiuemberea 
And most beautiful, too, are the sudden outbursts of thank- 
fulness — of the quick happy consciousness of liberty with 
which the narrator of tliis ghastly sacrifice interrupts the 
tale, to reassure himself, ' Sport on, my happy child ! foi 
thou art free.' The character of the convert's v;-ifc, Leonor, 
devotedly clinging to his fortunes, without a rei)roach or a 
murmur, while her heart trembles before him as tnougn sti* 
were in the presence of a lost spirit, is one of those in whicif 
Mrs. Hcmans's individual mode of thought and manner o 
expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, «he 
was hardly wrong in her own estimate of this poem ; and 
on recently turning to it, I have been surprised to find how 
well it bears the tests and trials with which it is onU eithrt 
fit or rational to examine works of the highest older ol 
mind." — Chorley's Memorials of Mrs. Hemans, pp. I2G. 
127. 

" If taste and elegance be titles to enduring fame, we 
might venture securely to promise that \ich boon to the 
author before us, who adds to tl ose great merits a tender- 
ness and loftiness of feeling, and an ethereal purity of eea 



fU2 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



timent, which could only emanate from the soul of a woman. 
Bhe must beware of becoming too voluminous, and must not 
venture aga/n on any thing so long as ' The Forest Sanc- 
tuarj'.' But if the next generation inherits our taste for 



to be forgotten. For we do not hesitate to say thai she is- 
beyond all comparison, the most touching and accomplisb«d 
writer of occasional verses that our literature has yet to 
boast of." — Lord JsFFBsr, in Edinburgh Review, October, 



Rbort poems, we are persuaded it will not readily allow ber 1829.] 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS 



[The following pieces may so far be considered a series, aa each is intended to be commemoratiTe of some nations 
recollection, popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Herder's " Stimmen der Vdlker in Liedem ; " tb« 
•xecution is, however, different, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations.] 



MOORISH BRIDAL SONG. 

'J It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who 
dies unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, 
and the bridal song is sung over her remains before they are 
borne from her home." — J^arrative of a Ten Years' Resi- 
dence in Tripoli, by the Sister-iji-law of Mr. Tully.] 

The citron groves their fruit and flowers were 

strewing 
Around a Moorish, palace, while the sigh 
Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing 
With music through their shadowy bowers went 

by; 
Music and voices, from the marble halls 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain 

faUs. 

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling 
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades. 
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem- 
crowned maids ; 
And thus it flowed : — yet something in the lay 
Belonged to sadness, as it died away. 

*♦ The bride comes forth ! her tears no more are 

falling 
To leave the chamber of her infant years ; 
Kind voices from a distant home are calling ; 
She comes like dayspring — she hath done with 

tears ; 
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers. 
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours ! — 
Pour the rich odors round ! 

'• We haste ! the chosen and the lovely bringing ; 
Love still goes with her from her place of birth; 
Deep, sUent joy within her soul is springing, 
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth ! 



Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years ; 
Her sisters weep — but she hath done with tears I 
Now may the timbrel sound ! " 

Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal 

numbers ? — 
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more ! 
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle 

slumbers, 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. 
Weep for the young, the beautiful, — the dead ! 



THE BIRD'S RELEASE. 

[The Indians of Bengal and of the coast of Malabar bring 
cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, ovei 
which they set the birds at liberty. This custom is alluded 
to in the description of Virjiiia.^ funeral. — See Paul and 

Virginia.] 

Go forth ! for she is gone ! 
With the golden Hght of her wavy hair, 
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

Her voice hath passed away ! 
It hath passed away like a summer breeze, 
When it leaves the hills for the far clue seaa^, 

Where we may not trace its way. 

Go forth, and like her be free ! 
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye. 
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, 

And what is our grief to thee ? 

Is it aught e'en to her we mourn ? 
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed I 



DvJth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle 
head, 
Or float, on the light wind borne ? 

We know not — but she is gone ! 
Her step from the dance, Tier voice from the song, 
Axd the smile of her eye from the festal throng ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

When the waves at sunset shine. 
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more, 
lu the scented woods of our glowing shore ; 

But we shall not know 'tis thine ! 

Even so with the loved one flown ! 
Her smile in the starlight may wander by, 
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh, 

Around us — but all unknown. 

Go forth ! we have loosed thy chain ! 
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers 
Which the bright day rears in our Eastern 
bowers ; 

But thou wilt not be lured again. 

Even thus may the summer pour 
A.U fragrant things on the land's green breast, 
A.nd the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, 

But it wins her back no more ! 



THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. 

A NORTHERN LEGEND. 

[The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in BUtrk- 
$ther, a tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The 
lepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the 
Rshes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the 
Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the departed spirit 
were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists to be the 
condequence of any profanation of the sepulchre. — See 
Ochlenschlaqer's Plays.] 

" Voice of the gifted elder time ! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme ! 
Bpeak ! from the shades and the depths disclose 
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes ; 

Voice of the buried past ! 
Voice of the grave ! 'tis the mighty hour 
When night with her stars and dreams hath 

power, 
A.nd my step hath been soundless on the snows, 
4.nd the spell I have sung hath laid repose 

On the billow and the blast." 

Then the torrents of the North 
And the forest pines were still, 



While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

" There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead. 
But where the day looks not the brave ma> 

tread ; 
There is heard no song, and no mead is poured, 
But the warrior may come to the silent board 

In the shadow of the night. 
There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb. 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman'ii 

doom ; 
But soft be thy step through the si ence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 

For the viewless have fearful might ' * 

Then died the solemn lay, 
As a trumpet's music dies, 
By the night wind borne away 
Through the wild and stormy skies. 

The fir trees rocked to the wailing blast, 
As on through the forest the warrior passed — 
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old — 
The dark place of visions and legends, told 

By the fires of Northern pine. 
The fir trees rocked, and the frozen ground 
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound ; 
And it seemed that the depths of those awfuJ 

shades. 
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades. 

Gave Avarning, with voice and sign 

But the wind strange magic knows. 
To call wild shape and tone 
From the gray wood's tossing boughs. 
When night is on her throne. 

The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom. 
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb : 
The Pole star shone, and the heavens wen 

bright 
With, the arrowy streams of the Northern light 

But his road through dimness lay ! 
He passed, in the heart of that ancient wood, 
The dark shrine stained with the victim 

blood ; 
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted he*\ 
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead. 

Arose on his midnight way. 

Then first a moment's chill 
Went shuddering through his breast. 
And the steel-clad man stood stU' 
Before that plac*- of rest. 



kOi 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



But ho crossed at length, with a deep-drawn 

breath. 
The threshold tloor of the hall of Death, 
And looked on the pale mysterious fire 
Wl»\ch gleamed from the urn of his warrior 

sire 
"With a strange and solemn light. 
Then darkly the w^ords of the boding strain 
iiia.c an omen rose on his soul again — 
•• Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep ; 
For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

But the gleaming sword and shield 
Of many a battle day 
Hung o'er that urn, revealed 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray ; 

With a faded wreath of oak leaves bound. 
They hung o'er the dust of the far renowned, 
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice 
Had called to the banquet where gods rejoice, 

And the rich mead flows in light. 
With a beating heart his son drew near. 
And . till rang the verse in his thrilling ear — 
" Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep ; 

For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

And many a Saga's rhyme, 
And legend of the grave. 
That shadowy scene and time 
Called back, to daunt the brave. 

But he raised his arm — and the flame grew 

dim. 
And the sword in its light seemed to wave and 

swim, 
And his faltering hand could not grasp it w^ell — 
From the pale oak wreath, with a calsh it fell 

Through the chamber of the dead ! 
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, 
And the urn lay shivered in fragments round : 
And » rush, as of tempests, quenched the 

fire, 
Aa^ the scattered dust of his warlike sire 
Was strewn on the champion's head. 

Ot)» moment — and all was still 
In the slumberer's ancient hall. 
When the rock had ceased to thrill 
With tho mighty weapon's fall. 

rhe stars were just fading one by one, 

Th^ clouds were just tinged by the early sun, 



When there streamed through the cavern > 

torch's flame, 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 

To seek him in the tomb. 
Stretched on his shield, like the steel-gir. 

slain. 
By moonlight seen on the battle plain. 
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there ; 
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare 

Burst on him through the gloom. 

** The morning wind blows free, 
And the hour of chase is near : 
Come forth, come forth with me ! 
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?" 

" I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, 

I have scattered the dust of my warrior sire ! 

It burns on my head, and it weighs down my 

heart ; 
But the winds shall not wander v/ithout their 

part 
To strew o'er the restless deep ! 
In the mantle of death he was here with me 

now — 
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on 

his brow ; 
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell 
With an icy ray and a withering spell — 
O, chill is the house of sleep ! " 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the reddening sun shines cltdi ; 
Come forth, come forth with me ! 
It is dark and fearful here ! " 

"He is there, he is there, with his shadowy 

frown ! 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown — 
The crown from his head, and the spear from bl& 

hand — 
They have chased him far from the glorioui 

land 
Where the feast of the gods is spread ! 
He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, 
He must ride o'er the grave hills with stormj 

speed ! 
His place is no longer at Odin's board, 
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword 
But the slayer shall avenge the dead ! " 

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest ; 
But its fiercest work was done 
In ;l.e tomb, on Sigurd's breast ' 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. -i-W 




Then a stillness on his spirit fell. 


VALKYRIUR SONG. 


Before th' unearthly train, 




For he knew Valhalla's daughters well 


[The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, 
ivere supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in 


The Choosers of the slain ! 


jattle, and be received into the luills of Odin. 


And a sudden rising breeze 


When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obse- 


Bore, across the moaning seas. 


quies were honored with all possible magnificence. His 


To his ear their thrilling strain. 


arms, gold and silver, war horse, domestic attendants, and 




ivhatever else he held most dear, were placed witli him on 




ihe pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a 


" There are songs in Odin's Hall 


point of honor to die with their leader, in order to attend on 


For the brave ere night to fall ; 


his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And, lastly, 


Doth the great sun hide his ray ? 


his wife was generally consumed with him on the same 
pile. — See Mallet's J^Torthern Antiquities, Herbert's 


He must bring a wrathful day ! 


^ielga, &c.] 


Sleeps the falchion in its sheath ? 


" Tremblingly flashed th' inconstant meteor light, 


Swords must do the work of death ! 


Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth ; 


Regner ! Sea King ! thee we call ! 


Save that all signs of human joy or grief. 


There is joy in Odin's HaU. 


The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seemed 


On the fixed brightness of each dazzling cheek 




Strange and unnatiiral." Milman. 


" At the feast, and in the song. 


The Sea King woke from the troubled sleep 


Thou shalt be remembered long ; 


Of a vision -haunted night. 


By the green isles of the flood, 


And he looked from his bark o'er the gloomy 


Thou hast left thy track in blood ! 


deep, 


On the earth, and on the sea, 


And counted the streaks of light ; 


There are those will speak of th.ee ! 


For the red sun's earliest ray- 


'Tis enough — the war gods Cs>ll ; 


Was to rouso his bands that day 


There is mead in Odin's Hall. 


To the stormy joy of fight ! 






" Regner ! tell thy fair-haired bride 


But the dreams of rest were still on earth, 


She must slumber at thy side ; 


And the sileii stars on high, 


Tell the brother of thy breast 


And there wa^ed not the smoke of one cabin 


E'en for him thy grave hath rest. 


hearth 


Tell the raven steed which bore thee, 


'Midst the quiet of the sky ; 


When the wild wolf fled before thee, 


And along the twilight bay, 


He too with his lord must fall ; 


In their sleep the hamlets lay. 


There is room in Odin's Hall. 


For they knew not the Norse were nigh ! 






" Lo ! the mighty sun looks forth - 


The Sea King looked o'er the brooding wave, 


Arm ! thou leader of the North ! 


He turned to the dusky shore, 


Lo ! the mists of twilight fly — 


«.nd there seemed, through the arch of a tide- 


We must vanish, thou must die ! 


worn cave, 


By the sword and by the spear, 


A gleam, as of snow, to pour ; 


By the hand that knows no fear. 


And forth, in watery light, 


Sea King ! nobly thou shalt faU! - 


Moved phantoms, dimly white. 


There is joy in Odin's Hall.' 


Which the garb of woman bore. 






There was arming heard on land and Wh?«>, 


B lowly they moved to the billow side ; 


When afar the sunlight spread. 


And the forms, as they grew more clear. 


And the phantom forms of the tid» mmt 


Seemed each on a tall, pale steed to ride. 


cave 


And a shadowy crest to rear, 


With the mists of morning fled ; 


And to beckon with faint hand 


But at eve, the kingly hand 


From the dark and rocky strand. 


Of the battle axe and brand 


And to poii.t a gleaming spear. 


Lay cold on a pile of dead ! 



106 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



THE CAYERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 

A SWISS TRADITION. 

[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are 
Ihought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The 
herdsmen call them the Three Tells ; and say that they lie 
there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and vi'hen 
Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and 
regain the liberties of the land. — See Quarterly Review, 
*Jo. 44.] 

The Griitli, where the confederates held their nightly 
meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, 
f : Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest Sea.] 

0, ENTER not yon shadowy cave, 

Seek not the bright spars there, 
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave 
With freshness fill the air : 

For there the Patriot Three, 
In the garb of old arrayed, 
By their native Forest Sea 
On a rocky couch are laid. 

The Patriot Three that met of yore 

Beneath the midnight sky, r 

A.nd leagued their hearts on the GrQtli shore 
In the name of liberty ! 

Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep 

Till their country's hour of need. 

niey start not at the hunter's call. 

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry, 
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 
Nor the Lauwine thundering by. 
And the Alpine herdsman's lay, 
To a Switzer's heart so dear! 
On the wild wind floats away, 
No more for them to hear. 

But when the battle horn is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone 
Through their eagles' lonely sky ; 

When the spear heads light the lakes, 

T>^hen trumpets loose the snows, 
When the rushing war steed shakes 
The glacier's mute repose ; 

When Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlet's light — 
'^hen from the cavern of the dead 
Shall the sleepers wake in might ! 

With a leap, like Toll's proud leap 
When away the helm he flung, 



And boldly up the steep 

From the flashing billow sprung ! * 

They shall wake beside their Forest Sea, 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they linked the hands that made \a 
free, 
On the GrQtli's moonlight shore ; 
And their voices shall be heard, 

And be answered with a shout, 
Till the echoing Alps are stirred. 
And the signal fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day 
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain. 
Through the serried spears made way; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morgarten dell. 
And the crowned casques,' o'erthrown, 
Before our fathers fell ! 

For the KOhreihen's ' notes must never sound 

In a land that wears the chain. 
And the vines on freedom's holy ground 
XJntrampled must remain ; 

And the yellow harvests wave 

For no stranger's hand to reap, 
While within their silent cave 
The men of GrUtli sleep ! 



SWISS SONG, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. 

[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate 
the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solem 
nity ; assembling in the open air on the fields where theii 
ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by thr 
priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of tht 
day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession tc 
chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, whera 
masses are sung for the souls of the departed. — See Ptxif 
ta's History of the Helvetic Confedsraey.] 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where Freedom's voice and step are found. 
Forget ye not the band — 
The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here in the narrow battle dell ! 

1 The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat o 
Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellenaprung 

2 Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are men 
tioned in Simond's Switzerland. 

3 The Kuhreihen —the celebrated Ranz des Caches 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



4{r 



If ye^,, the wilds among, 

Our silent hearts may burn, 
When the deep mountain horn hath rung, 
And home our steps may turn — 
Home ! — home ! — if still that name be dear. 
Praise to the men who perished here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to their shining snows 
That day the stormy rolling sound, 
The sound of battle, rose ! 
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast, 
Their dark pines trembled as it passed ! 

They saw the princely crest, 

They saw the knightly spear, 
The banner, and the mail-clad breast. 
Borne down and trampled here ! 
They saw — and glorying there they stand, 
Eternal records to the land ! 

Praise to the mountain-bom, 
The brethren of the glen ! 
By them no steel array was worn. 
They stood as peasant men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field, 
To break an empire's lance and shield. 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet, along their steeps, 
Our childjren's fearless feet may bound, 
Free as the chamois leaps ; 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood fire's blaze, 

When winter stars gleam cold, 
The glorious tales of elder days 
May proudly yet be told, 
Forget not then the shepherd race, 
Who made the hearth a holy place ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet the Sabbath bell 
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound, 
1 hink on the battle dell ! 
For Wood first bathed its flowery sod, 
rhat ohainlesis hearts might worship God ! 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a 
Mitain bird tliat sings mournfully in the nighttime. They 
Ity it is a messenjjer which their deceased friends and rela- 
iona have sent, and that it brings them news from the other 
vorld — See PicAiir's Ceremonies and ReHgious Customs 1 



Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird 
Thou art come from the spirits' land : 

Through the dark pine grove let thy voice b« 
heard, 
And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 
In the light of that summer shore ; 

And we know that the friends we have lost are 
there. 
They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fever'i 
thirst 

From the fountain of youth ere now,* 
For there must the stream in its freshness biirst 

Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to eartk 
From the land of deathless flowers. 

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night kre's blaze. 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget ? 
We call — and they answer not again : 

Do they love — do they love us yet > 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

And the father of his child ? 
And the chief of those that were wont to shara 

His wandering through the wild? 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still ? ' 



1 An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponoc 
de Leon, in the sixteenth century, with a view of discorer- 
ing a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Pueit« 
Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess th< 
virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters 
See Robertson's History of America. 

2 ANSWER TO "THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY. 

Yes ! I came from the spirits' land, 

From the land that is bright and fair ; 

I came with a voire from the shadowy band. 
To tell that they love you there. 



103 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 

[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the 
jkli^sissippi who bur^t into tears at the sight of a stranger. 
The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends 
una relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in 
constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly 
amongst these foreign travellers. — Picart's Ceremonies and 
Religious Custo7ns. 

" J'ai passe moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Sou- 
itenirs (PAmerique, " chez une peuplade Indienne qui se 
prenait k pleurer i la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rap- 
pelait des amis partis pour la Contree des Ames, et depuis 
longtems en voyage."] 

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept. 
We looked for the youth of the sunny glance 
Whose step was the fleetest m chase or dance ; 
The light of his eye was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee. 
But there came a voice from a distant shore — 
He was called — he is found 'midst his tribe no 

more : 
He is not in his place when the night fires burn, 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept. 
We looked for the maid of the mournful song — 
Mournful, though sweet, — she hath left us long : 
We told her the youth of her love was gone, 
^nd she went forth to seek him — she passed 

alone. 

To say, if a wish or a vain regret 

Could live in Elysian bowers, 
'Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget. 

The beloved of their youthful hours. 

To whisper the dear deserted band, 

Who smiled on their tarriance here. 

That a faithful guard in the dreamless land 
Are the friends they have loved so dear. 

Tis true, in the silent night you call. 

And they answer you not again ; 
B'lt the spirits of bliss are voiceless all — 

Bound only was made for pain. 

iliat their land is bright and they weep no more, 

I have warbled from hill to hill ; 
but my plaintive strain should have told before. 

That they love, O, they love you still. 

They bid me say that unfading flowers 

You'll find in the path they trod ; 
And a welcome true to tneir deatliless bowers. 

Pronounced by the voice of God. 1827. 



We hear not her voice when the woods are stUl, 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, 
The winter is white on his lonely head : 
He hath none bj his side when the wilds wa 

track, 
He hath none when we rest — yet she cornea 

not ^ack ! 
We looked for her eye on the feast to shine, 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger ' and wept. 
We looked for the chief, who hath left the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here : 
We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight 

sky ! — 
Where are they ? Thou'rt seeking some distant 

coast : 
O, ask of them, stranger ! — send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, 
And to watch for a step — but the step was 

thine ! 



THE ISLE OF FOUNTS; 

AN INDIAN TRADITION. 

[" The River St. Mary has its source from a vast lake oi 
marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge Rivers, and 
occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This 
vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a 
lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich, high 
land ; one of which the present generation of the Creek In- 
dians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They 
say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose wo- 
men are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that 
this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their en- 
terprising hunters, wlien in pursuit of game ; but that iu 
their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in per- 
petual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they 
imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to l.'y before 
them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They re 
solved, at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to re- 
turn ; which, after a number of difficulties, tliey effected 
When they reported their adventures to their countrymen 
the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire 
to invade and make a conquest of so charming a country 
but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, nevei 
having been able again to find that enchanting spot." — Beb 
tram's Travels through J^Torth and South Carolina, <fcc. 

The additional circumstances in the "Isle of Founts 
are merely imaginary.] 

Son of the stranger ! wouldst thou take 
O'er yon blue hills thy lonelj way, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



4V 



To reach the still and shining lake 

Along whose banks the west winds play ? 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile — 
O, seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty serpent king,' 

'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain ; 
"Ward but the cougar's deadly spring, — 
Thy step that lake's green shore may gain ; 
A.nd the bright Isle, when all is passed, 
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last ! 

Yes ! there, with «ill its rainbow streams, 

Clear as within thine arrow's flight. 
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams, 
Floats on the wave in golden light ; 
And lovely will the shadows be 
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! 

And breathings from their sunny flowers. 

Which are not of the things that die, 
And singing voices from their bowers. 
Shall greet thee in the purple sky ; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 
Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise 

From the deep chambers of the earth ? 
The wild and wondrous melodies 

To which the ancient rocks gave birth ? ^ 
Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood notes o'er the waves. 

The emerald waves ! — they take their hue 

And image from that sunbright shore ; 
But wouldst thy launch thy light canoe, 
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar, — 
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed. 
The dreamy land should still recede ! 

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear 
The music of its flowering shades. 

And ever should the sound be near 

Of founts that ripple through its glades 

1 The Cherokees believe tliat the recesses of their moun- 
*ina, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered 
with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs 
»f rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the " bright old 
Inhabitants." They represent them as snakes of an enor- 
mous size, and which possess the power of drawing to 
them eveiy living creature that comes within the reach of 
their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a car- 
buncle of dazzling brightness. — See JVutes to Levden's 
Scenes of Infancy. 

9 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the 

B<uth Anerican missionaries lazas dc Jilusica, and alluded ' 

»c n a dixmet note I 

52 



The sound, and sight, and flashing ray 
Of joyous waters in their play ! 

But M-oe for him who sees them burst 

With their bright spray showers to the \alre 
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst 
That semblance in his soul shall wake, 
Forever pouring through his dreams 
The gush of those untasted streams ! 

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, 

The waters of our deserts lie, 
Yet at their source his lip shall bum, 
Parched with the fever's agony ! 
From the blue mountains to the main, 
Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 

E'en thus our hunters came of yore 

Back from their long and weary quest ; — 
Had they not seen th' untrodden shore ? 
And cotdd they 'midst our wilds find rest 
The lightning of their glance was fled, 
They dwelt amongst us as the dead I 

They lay beside our glittermg rills 

"With visions in their darkened eve ; 
Their joy was not amidst the hills 
Where elk and deer before us fly : 
Their spears upon the cedar hung, 
Their javelins to the wind were flung. 

They bent no more the forest bow, 

They armed not with the warrior band, 
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow- 
They left us for the spirits' land ! 
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap 
Shows where the restless found their sleep. 

Son of the stranger ! if at eve 

Silence be 'midst us in thy places 
Yet go not where the mighty leave 
The strength of battle and of chase i 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile — 
O, seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 



THE BENDED BOW. 

[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Bm 
ain by sending messengers in different directions througli 
the land, each bearing a bend/d bow ; and that peace was i* 
like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and theretoif 
straight. — See the Cambrian jSntiquities.] 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe. 
There was sent through Britain i bended bow 



uo 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



And a Toice was poured on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 

•* Heard you not the battle horn ? — 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn : 
Leave it for the birds of heaven — 
Swords must flash and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the winds to shed — 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red." 

hji : the reaper armed, like a freeman's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain chase. 
Take the falchion from its place ; 
Let the wolf go free to-day, 
Leave him for a nobler prey ; 
Let the deer ungalled sweep by — 
Aim thee ! Britain's foes are nigh." 

A.nd the hunter armed ere the chase was done ; 
A-ud the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast — 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming bright, 
Though the fires give ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall." 

And the chieftain armed,and the horn was blown ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

** Prince ! thy father's deeds are told 
In the bower and in the hold, 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 
Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee ! " 

And the prince came armed, like a leader's 

son ; 
And the bended ~>3yv and the voice passed on. 

' Mother ! stay thou not thy boy, 
He must learn the battle's joy : 
Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 
Give thy brother words of cheer : 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part : 
Britain calls the strong in heart ! " 

fltad the bended bow and the voice passed on ; 
Vnd the bards made song for a battle won. 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN 

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death t 
his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off thi 
coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.] 

The bark that held a prince went down, 

The sweeping waves rolled on ; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; 
Why comes not death to those who mourn ? 

He never smiled again ! 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave ; 
But which could fill the place of one, 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him passed the young and fair, 

In pleasure's reckless train ; 
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair — 

He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round, 

He heard the minstrel sing. 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned 

Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep — 

He never smiled again ! 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly poured, 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with teart. 

Were left to heaven's bright rain, 
Fresh hopes were born for other years — 
He never smiled again ! 



CCEUR DE LION AT THE BIER Of Hl> 
FATHER. 

[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey- 
church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholdi«fj it, was struck with horrol 
and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebel 
lions conduct which had been the means of bringing hu 
father to an untimely grave.] 



Torches were blazing clear, 
Hymns pealing deep and slow, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 41. 


Where a king lay stately on his bier 


He looked upon the dead — 


In the church of Tontevraud. 


And sorrow seemed to lie. 


Banners of battle o'er him hung, 


A weight of sorrow, e'en like lead. 


And warriors slept beneath ; 


Pale on the fast- shut eye. 


Ajid light, as noon's broad light, was flung 


He stooped — and kissed the frozen cheek, 


On the settled face of death. 


And the heavy hand of clay ; 




Till bursting words — yet all too weak - 


On the settled face of death 


Gave his soul's passion way. 


A strong and ruddy glare, 




Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, 


" father ! is it vain. 


Yet it feU still brightest there ; 


This late remorse and deep ? 


As if each deeply-furrowed trace 


Speak to me, father ! once again • 


Of earthly years to show. 


I weep — behold, I weep ! 


Aias ! that sceptred mortal's race 


Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! — 


Had surely closed in woe ! 


Were but this work undone, 




I would give England's crown, my sire ! 


The marble floor was swept 


To hear thee bless thy son. 


By many a long dark stole, 




.lb the kneeling priests round him that slept 


'• Speak to me ! Mighty grief 


Sang mass for the parted soul : 


Ere now the dust hath stirred ! 


A.nd solemn were the strains they poured 


Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief. 


Through the stillness of the night, 


My king ! I mmt be heard ! 


With the cross above, and the crown and 


Hushed, hushed — how is it that I call, 


sword, 


And that thou answer' st not ? 


And the silent king in sight. 


When was it thus r Woe, woe for all 




The love my soul forgot ! 


There was heard a heavy clang. 




As of steel -girt men the tread. 


" Thy silver hairs I see. 


And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 


So still, so sadly bright ! 


With a sounding thrill of dread ; 


And father, father ! but for me. 


And the holy chant was hushed a while. 


They had not been so white ! 


As, by the torch's flame. 


I bore thee down, high heart ! at last : 


A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle 


No longer couldst thou strive. 


With a mail-clad leader came. 


for one moment of the past, 




To kneel and say — « Forgive ! ' 


He came with haughty look, 




An eagle glance and clear ; 


«« Thou wert the noblest king 


But his proud heart through its breastplate 


On royal throne e'ei ieen ; 


shook 


And thou didst wear in knightly ring, 


When he stood beside the bier ! 


Of all, the stateliest mien ; 


He stood there still with a drooping brow, 


And thou didst prove, where spears are pro we\ 


And clasped hands o'er it raised ; 


In war, the bravest heart : 


For his father lay before him low — 


0, ever the renowned and loved 


It was CoBur-de-Lion gazed ! 


Thou wert — and there thou art ! 


And silently he strove 


"Thou that my boyhood's guide 


With the workings of his breast ; 


Didst take fond joy to be ! 


Bat there's more in late repentant love 


The times I've sported at thy side, 


ThaJi steel may keep suppressed ! 


And climbed thy parent knee ! 


And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain, — 


And there before the blessed shrine, 


Men held their breath in awe ; 


My sire ! I see thee lie, — 


For his face was seen by his warrior train. 


How will that sad still face of thine 


And he recked not that they saw. 


Look on me till I die ! " 



12 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE 
FALLEN TREE. 

[" Here ^^at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly 
Btrange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many 
f^rsons and commonly believed. Before any heir of this 
family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies 
of trees swimming on the water for several days." — Cam- 
-ien's Britannia.] 

\"es I I have seen the ancient oak 

On the dark deep water cast, 
And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke, 
Or the rush of the sweeping blast ; 
For the axe might never touch that tree, 
And the air was still as a summer sea. 

I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
By an arrow in the fight. 
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, 
At the crashing of its might ; 
And the startled deer to their coverts drew. 
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 

*Tis fallen ! But think thou not I weep 

For the forest's pride o'erthrown — 
An old man's tears lie far too deep 
To be poured for this alone : 
But by that sign too well I know 
That a youthful head must soon be low ! 

A youthful head, with its shining hair, 

And its bright quick-flashing eye ; 
Well may I weep ! for the boy is fair, 
Too fair a thing to die ! 
But on his brow the mark is set — 
0, could my life redeem him yet 1 

He bounded by me as I gazed 

Alone on the fatal sign. 
And it seemed like sunshine when he raised 
His joyous glance to mine. 
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, 
Bo full of life — but he must die ! 

He must, he must ! in that deep dell, 

By that dark water's side, 
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell 
But an heir of his fathers died. 
Ajid he — there's laughter in his eye, 
Toy in his voice — yet he must die ! 

I've borne him in these arms, that now 

Are nerveless and unstrung; 
And must I see, on that fair brow, 

The dust untimely flung ? 



I must ' — yon green oak, branch nud crest. 
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 

The noble boy ! — how proudly sprung 

The falcon from his hand ! 
It seemed like youth to see him young, 
A flower in his father's land ! 
But the hour of the knell and the dirge h, 

nigh, 
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. 

Say not 'tis vain ! I tell thee, some 

Are warned by a meteor's light. 
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home, 
Or a voice on the winds by night ; 
And they must go ! And he too, he ! 
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree ! 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 

[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing 
of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He 
is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle 
of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle 
of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound 
of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke 
of Baden before the commencement of the last war in 
Germany.] 

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour. 

If thou didst not hear the blast 
Of the savage horn from the mountain tower, 

As the Wild Night Huntsman passed. 
And the roar of the stormy chase went by 
Through the dark unquiet sky ! 

The stag sprang up from his mossy bed 
When he caught the piercing sounds. 

And the oak boughs crashed to his antlered 
head, 
As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 

And the falcon soared from her craggy height, 

Away through the rushing night ! 

The banner shook on its ancient hold, 

And the pine in its desert place, 
As the cloud and tempest onward rolled 

With the din of the trampling race ; 
And the glens were filled with the laugh and 

shout, 
Ai\d the bugle, ringing out ! 

From the chieftwn's hand the wine cup fell, 

At the caatlb's festive board, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



i\t 



And a Sddden pausa came o'er the swell 

Of the harp's triumphal chord ; 
And the Minnesinger's ^ thrilling lay 
In the hall died fast away. 

The convert s chanted rite was stayed, 
And the h ^rmit dropped his beads, 

And a trembUng ran through the forest shade, 
At the neigh of the phantom steeds, 

And the church bells pealed to the rocking 
blast 

A.a the Wild Night Huntsman passed. 

The storm hath swept with the chase away, 

There is stillness in the sky ; 
But the mother looks on her son to-day 

With a troubled heart and eye, 
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care 
'Midst the gleam of her golden hair ! 

The Ehine flows bright ; but its waves ore long 

Must hear a voice of war. 
And a clash of spears our hills among, 

And a trumpet from afar ; 
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie — 
For the Huntsman hath gone by ! 



BRANDENBURG HARVEST SONG.' 

FBOM THE OEBMAX OF LA MOTTE TOVqVS. 

The corn in golden light 

Waves o'er the plain ; 
The sickle's gleam is bright ; 

Full swells the grain. 

Now send we far around 

Our harvest lay ! 
Alas ! a heavier sound 

Comes o'er the day ! 

Earth shrouds with burial sod 

Her soft eyes blue, — 
Now o'er the gifts of God 

Fall tears like dew. 

On every breeze a knell 

The hamlets pour: 
We know its cause too. well — 



She 



ts no more , 



» Ahnneyinger, ZoTje sino'er — tne wandering minstrels of 
''•many were so called in the middle ages. 

Vor the year of tlie Q,ueen of Prussia's death. 



THE SHADE OF VHESEUS. 

AN ANCIENT QBEEK TEADITION. 

Know ye not when our dead 

From sleep to battle sprung ? — 
Wheu the Persian charger's tread 

On their covering greensward rung ; 
When the trampling march of foes 

Had crushed our vines and flowers, 
When jewelled crests arose 

Through the holy laurel bowers ; 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

There was one, a leader crowned. 

And armed for Greece that day ; 
But the falchions made no sound 

On his gleaming war array. 
In the battle's front he stood, 

With his tall and shadowy crest ; 
But the arrows drew no blood. 

Though their path was through his breast 
When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

His sword was seen to flash 

Where the boldest deeds were done , 
But it smote without a clash — 

The stroke was heard by none ! 
His voice was not of those 

That swelled the rolling blast, 
And his steps fell hushed hke snows — 
'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed I 
When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

Far sweeping through the foe. 

With* a fiery charge he bore ; 
And the Mede left many a bow 
On the sounding ocean shore. 
And the foaming waves grew red. 

And the sails were crowded fast, 
When the sons of Asia fled, 
• As the Shade of Theseus passed ! 

When banners cauglit the breesa, 
When helms in sunlight shon«» 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 



ku 



LAYS OF Many LANDS. 



A.NCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. 

Wheke is the summer with her golden sun ? — 
That festal glory hath not passed from 
earth : 

For me alone the laughing day is done ! 
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ? 

— Far in my own bright land 1 

Where are the Fauns, whose flute notes breathe 
and die 
On the green hills ? — the founts, from sparry 
caves 
Through the wUd places bearing melody ? — 
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river 
waves ? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the temples, through the dim wood 
shining. 
The virgin dances, and the choral strains ? 
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, en- 
twining 
The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes ? 

— Fir in my own bright land ! 

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous 
throngs, 
The red gr<*,pes pressing when the foliage 
fades ? 
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian 
songs, 
And the pine forests, and the olive shades ? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where the deep-haunted grots, the laurel bow- 
ers, 
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's 
dreams ? — 
that my life were as a southern flower's ! — 
I might not languish then by these chUl 
streams. 
Far from my own bright land ! 



GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, 
MYRIOLOGUE. 



OR 



[•*Les Chants Funfebres par lesquels on deplore en Grdce 
la mort de ses prochcs, prcnnent le noni particulicr de Myri- 
ologia — comnie qui dirait, Discoiirs de lamentation, com- 
plaintes. Un inalade vient-il de reridre le dernier soupir, sa 
fernme, sa mere, nes filles, scs soeurs, celles, en un mot, de 
des plus prochcs parentes qui sont lA, lui ferment les yeux et 
&t)Ourbe,en^')anchantlibrement, chacur'^selon sonnaturel 



et sa mesure de tendresse pour le d6funt, U V'v'^t f»' li-^ 
ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempii, elles se ret* 
rent toutes chcz une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amxes. 
L3i elles cliangent de vetemens, s'habillent de ulanc, cumni<j 
pour la ceremonie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'elle? 
gardent la tete nue, les cheveux epars et pendants Ces ap- 
prets teimines, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure do 
deuil ; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur 
douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et comma la premiere foia, 
sans regie et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontante* 
sujcedent bientot des lamentations d'une autre espece : cc 
sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus procbe 
parente qui prononce le sien la premiere ; apr6s elle les au- 
tres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myrio 
logues sont toujours composes et chantes par les femmes. 
lis sont toujours improvises, toujours en vers, et toujours 
chantes sur un air qui differe d'un lieu k un autre, mais qui, 
dans un lieu donne, reste invariablement consacr6 i ce genre 
de poesie." — Chants Populaires de la Orice Modeme, pat 
C. Fauriel-j 

A WA.IL was heard around the bed, the death 

bed of the young — 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung : — 
" lanthis ! dost thou sleep ? Thou sleep'st — 

but this is not the rest. 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pil- 
lowed on my breast : 
I lulled thee not to this repose, lanthis ! my 

sweet son ! 
As, in thy glowing childhood's time, by twilight 

I have done. 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon 

thee now ? 
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale 

glorious brow ? 

" I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most 

fair and grave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for 

the grave. 
Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heav- 
ily thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon glance that in it loved 

to lie ; 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed 

on breezes borne. 
When to thy couch I came and said, — * Wake, 

hunter, wake ! 'tis morn ! ' 
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! untouched 

by slow decay, — 
And I, the withered stem, remain. I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" O, ever, when I met thy look, I knew that thu 

would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not 

gift for thee I 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



41' 



t saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bear- 
ing high ; — 

A. voice came whispering to my soul, and told 
me thou must die ! 

Thp-t thou must die, my fearless one ! where 
swords were flashing red. — 

\VTij doth a mother live to say — My first-born 
and my dead ! 

They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of 
victory won : 

Speak thou, and I will hear, my child ! lanthis ! 
my sw&it son ! " 

A waiL was heard around the bed, the death bed 

of the young — 
A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst 

her weeping sung : — 
'♦ lanthis ! look'st thou not on me f Can love 

indeed be fled ? 
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately 

head? 
I would that I had followed thee, lanthis, my 

beloved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faith- 
ful hearts are proved ; 
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled 

at thy side ! — 
It would have been a blessed thing together had 

we died ! 

" But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword ? 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the 

peaceful board ? 
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shad- 
ow of the vine, 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the 

holy shrine ? 
And thou wert lying low the while, the lifedrops 

from thy heart 
Fast gushing, like a mountain spring ! And 

cculdst thou thus depart ? 
Oouldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out 

thy fleeting breath ? — 
0, I was with thee but in joy, that shoTild have 

been in death ! 

■ ' Yes ' 1 was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led, 
^d when the lyre and voice were tuned, and 

when the feast was spread ; 
But not where noble blood flowed forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 
Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not 

*t« last adieu r 



What now can breathe of gladness more, — what 
scene, what hour, what tone ? 

The blue skies fade with all their lights ; the^y 
fade, since thou art gone ! 

Even that must leave me, that still face, bj oU 
my tears unmoved : 

Take me from this dark world with thee, lan- 
this ! my beloved ! " 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death bed 

of the young — 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a moumful 

sister sung : — 
"lanthis ! brother of my soul! — O, where are 

now the days 
That laughed among the deep-green hills, on all 

our infant plays ? 
When we two sported by the streams, or tracked 

them to their source. 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, 

fearless course ! — 
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills 

descend. 
But see thy bounding step no more — my brotn- 

er and my friend ! 

" I come with flowers, for spring is come ! IjvL 

this ! art thou here f 
I bring the garlands she hath brought — I cast 

them on thy bier. 
Thou shouldst be crowned wit z victory's crowr 

— but O, more meet they seem, 
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies ol 

the stream — 
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 

early low. 
Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sun- 
shine's glow ! 
The golden glow that tlirough thy heart wa« 

wont such joy to send : 
Woe that it smiles, and not for thee ! — m f 

brother and my friend ! " 



GREEK PARTING SONG. 

[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in nts 
" Chansons Populaires de la Grfeco Modems," and accorn 
panied by some very interesting particulars respecting t)i« 
extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he ir> 
forms us they are called, in which the modern Greeks arj 
accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding Cirewe 
to their country and friends.] 

A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a home 
Such as to early thought gives images. 



lid 



LAYS OF IM-VXY LANDS 



The longest treasured, and most oft recalled, 
And brightest kept, of love — a mountain home, 
That, Avith the murmur of its rocking pines, 
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, 
A.nd half unconscious prayer — a Grecian home. 
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung, 
And, through the dimness of its olive shades, 
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. 
And Inis was what he left ! Yet many leave 
Far more — the glistening eye, that first from 

theirs 
Called out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle 

hand. 
Which through the sunshine led forth infant 

steps 
To where the violets lay ; the tender voice 
That earliest taught them what deep melody 
Lives in affection's tones. He left not these. 
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 
With all a mother's love ! A bitterer gvief 
Was his — to part unloved ! — of her unloved 
That should have breathed upon his heart like 

spring. 
Fostering its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friends, 
And they went forth to cheer him on his way 
Unto the parting spot ; and she too went, 
That mother, tearless for her youngest born. 
The parting spot was reached — a lone deep 

glen, 
Holy, perchance, of yore ; for cave and fount 
Were there, and sweet- voiced echoes ; and above, 
The silence of the blue still upper heaven 
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they 

wore 
Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, 
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 
Through the wild laurels back; but then a 

light 
Broke on the stern, proud sadness of his eye, 
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 
A hurst of passionate song. 

" Farewell, farewell ! 
I hear thee, O thou rushing stream ! — thou'rt 

from my native dell, 
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound — a 

murmur of farewell ! 
And fare thee well — flow on, my stream ! — flow 

on, thou bright and free ! 
\ do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments 

for me ; 



But I have been a thing unloved from child 

hood's loving years, 
And therefore turns my soul to tliee, for thov 

hast known my tears ! 
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my se • 

cret tears have known ; 
The woods can tell where he hath wept that evei 

wept alone ! 

"I see thee once again, my home ! thou'rt ther« 

amidst thy vines. 
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of 

summer shines. 
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering 

through thy groves — 
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour 

the mother loves. 
The hour the mother loves ! — for me beloved it 

hath not been ; 
Yet ever in its purple smile thou smilest, a 

blessed scene ! 
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through dis- 
tant years will come — 
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be 

then, my home ! 

<* Not as the dead — no, not the dead ! We speak 

of the7n — we keep 
r/teir names, like light that must not fade, with- 
in our bosoms deep ; 
We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love 

the lay they sung. 
We pass with softer step the place they filled our 

band among. 
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught 

that leaves on earth 
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of ita 

birth ! 
I go ! — the echo of the rock a thousand songa 

may swell, 
When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, moun • 

tains, home, farewell ! 

" And farewell, mother ! I have borne in lon?ly 
silence long, 

But now the current of my soul grows passion- 
ate and strong ; 

And I will speak! though but the wind thai 
wanders through the sky, 

And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and roll- 
ing streams reply. 

Yes, I will speak ! Within my breast, whate'er 
hath seemed to be. 

There lay a hidden fount of love that -vv .iul«3 
have gushed for thee ! 



JLAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



417 



Brightly it would have gushed — but thou, my 

mother ! thou hast thrown 
tiack on the forests and the wilds what should 

have been thine own ! 

" Then fare thee well ! I leave thee not >. lone- 
liness to pine, 
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer 

brow than mine. 
Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! — it may 

be that a tone 
Yet from my burning; ^leart may pierce through 

thine, when I am gone ; 
A.nd thou, perchance, mp^st weep for him on 

whom thou ne'er hast smiled, 
And the grave give his birthright back to thy 

neglected child ! 
Might but my spirit theyi letur":., and 'midst its 

kindred dwell, 
And quench', its thirst with love's free tears ! 'Tis 

all fc dream : farewell ! " 

*• Farewell ! " — the echo died vidth that deep 

w ord ; 
Yet die! not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quickened in the mother's breast ! 
There had passed many changes o'er her 

brow, 
And cheek, and eye ; but into one bright 

flood 
Of tears at last all melted ; and she fell 
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, 
"Keturn, return, my son ! " The echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring, '* Return, my son ! " 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER. 

[It is related, in a French life of Ali Pacha, that several 
of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops 
Into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, 
■nd, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, 
«rith their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becom- 
Sig the slaves of the enemy.] 

She stood upoi i the lo tiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky ; 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

" Dost thou see them, boy ? — through the dusky 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shin 58 ? 



Hast thou caught the gleam sf the conqueror § 

crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst thou spring from thv mothf's arms 

with joy? 
— That sight hath cost thee a father, boy ! " 

For in the rocky strait beneath. 

Lay Suliote sire and son : 
They had heaped high the piles cf death 

Before the pass was won. 

"They have crossed the torrent, and on thoy 

come • 
Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear. 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet t<i 

hear. 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep. 
Nought but the blood stain our trace shall 

keep ! " 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 
And now the cymbal's clang. 

Till e'en the upper air was stirred. 
As cliff and hollow rang. 

** Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child \ 
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ? 
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 
As if at a glance of thine armed sire ? 
Still ! — be thou still ! — there are brave men 

low : 
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see hiitj 



But nearer came the clash of steel,. 

And louder swelled the horn. 
And farther yet the tambour's peal 

Through the dark pass was borne. 

'* Hear'st thou the sound of their savagt 

mirth ? 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, — 
Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath blessed thee, as I have done ! 
Ay, and unchained must his loved one* 

be — 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and mo ! 

And from the arrowy peak she spruniu 
And fast the fair child bore : — 

A veil upon the wind was flung, 
A cry — and all was o'er ! 



53 



418 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE EAEEWELL TO THE DEAD. 

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the 
Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are 
invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) 
and to bid their final adieu. — See Christian Researches in 
the Mediterranean.] 

" 'Tis hard to lay into the earth 
A countenance bo benign I a form that walked 
But yesterday eo stately o'er the earth 1 " Wilson. 

Come near ! Ere yet the dust 
Soil tlie bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near ! — r once more let kindred lips be 

pressed 
On his cold cheek 



then bear him to his rest ! 



Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even Avhere most it shone. 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? ' 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart im- 
pressed. 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ' Yesterday, 
Bong was upon the lips of this pale clay. 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the 

blessed. 
N'TW gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meeti yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. 



Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die ? — 
But not where death has power may love br 

blessed. 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? 
The spring's rich promise has been given it 
vain — 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early called to rest ! 

Look on him ! Is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase ? — 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face j 

Yet that, even that must fade : 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives y«ur vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirits' light is quenched ! For him th< 

past 
Is sealed : he may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our oeloved and blessed. 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



1 GO, SWEET FRIENDS ! 

( GO, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers ; 

For we have wandered far and free 
In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go ; but when you pause to hear, 
From distant hills, the Sabbath bell 

On summer winds float silvery clear, 
Think on me then — I loved it well ! 



Forget me not around your hearth. 
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze 

For dear hath been its evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends, in other dayo. 



And O, when music's voice is heard 
To melt in strains of parting woe. 

When hearts to love and grief are 
stirred 
Think of me then ! — I go, I go ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ilS 



ANGEL VISITS. 

No nore of talk where God or angel gue< 
With man, as with his friend, familiar used 
To Bit indulgent, aud with him partake 
Rxiral repast." Mi»-roir. 

A UE ye forever to j^our skies departed ? 

O, will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted 

llirough Eden's fresh and fiowenng shades of 
yore ! 
Now ar«j the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 
And ) e - - our faded earth beholds you not. 

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wandered from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 
Came down, high guests ! in many a later day, 

And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending. 
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 
rhat saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and 
sky: 
Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, 
And worshipped, awe-struck, in that fearful 
place. 

By Chebar's * brook ye passed, such radiance 
wearing 
As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ; 
And the dread rushing of your wings that 

hour 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, 
'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was 
done. 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering. 
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son ? 

— Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours ! your heavenly 
dwelling. 
Ye left, and by th' unsealed sepulchral stone. 
In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling. 
That He *hey sought had triumphed, and was 
gono 

1 Ezekiel, cliap. x 



Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hov<jr. 
With gentle promptings and sweet influenc« 

yet. 

Though the fresh glory of those days be aver, 
When, 'midst the palm trees, man yoi j foot 
steps met ? 
Are )'e not near when faith and hope rise high 
When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 
Y''ields up life's treasures unto Him who gave 

When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave r 

Dreams ! But a deeper thought our souls mat 
fill: 

One, One is near — a spirit holier still ' 



IVY SONG. 

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY LEAVES GATHERED FBO» 
THE RUINED CASTLE OF RUEINFELS, ON THE KHINE. 

O, HOW could Fancy crown with thee 

In ancient days the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the vine ? 
Thy home, wild plant ! is where each souud 

Of revelry hath long been o'er. 
Where song's full notes once pealed around 

But now are heard no more. 

The Roman on his battle plains, 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Intwined thee with exulting strains 

Around the victor's tent : 
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lov'st the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave. 

Where sleep the sons of ages flown, 

The bards and heroes of the past , 
Where, through the halls of glory gone. 

Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
Where years are hastening to efface 

Each record of the grand and fair ; 
Thou, in thy solitary grace. 

Wreath of the tomb ! art there. 

O, many a temple, once sublime, 
Beneath a blue Italian sky, 



120 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hath noufjht of beauty left by time, 

Save thy wild tapestry ! 
And reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine 

To wave where banners waved of yore, 
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhina, 

Along his rocky shore. 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those eyries of a vaiiished race — 
Homes of the mighty, whose renown 

Hath passed, and left no trace. 
But there thou art ! — thy foliage bright 

Unchanged the mountain storm can brave ; 
Thou, that vrilt climb the loftiest height. 

Or deck the humblest grave ! 

'Tis still the same ! Where'er we tread, 

The wrecks of human power we see — 
The marvels of all ages fled 

Left to decay and thee ! 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, grace, and strength ; 
Days pass — thou ivy never sere ! — * 

And all is thine at length ! 



rO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN 
ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Where sucks the bee now ? Summer is flying, 
Leaves round the elm tree faded are lying ; 
Violets are gone from their grassy dell, 
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell ; 
The rose from th.e garden hath passed away — 
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day ! 

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath 

smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child ! 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. 
Hoses may vanish, but this will stay — 
Happy and bright is thy natal day ! 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play 
With bounding heart, my boy ! 

Before thee lies a .ong bright day 
Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 
To cloud thy fearless eye : 

" Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere." — Lvcidas. 



Long be it thus ! — life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings. 
Now in thy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought spring*. 

So, in the onward vale of tears. 

Where'er thy path may be. 
When strength hath bowed to evil years, 

He will remember thee ! 



CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. 

Fear was within the tossing bark 
When stormy winds grew loud, 

And waves came rolling high and dark, 
And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill ; 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea — Be still ! 

And the wind ceased — it ceased ! that word 
Passed through the gloomy sky : 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast ; 
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep, 

When sultry day is past. 

O Thou ! that in its wildest hour 
Didst rule the tempest's mood. 

Send thy meek spirit forth in power, 
Soft on our souls to brood ! 

Thou that didst bow the billow s pride 

Thy mandate to fulfil I 
O, speak to passion's raging tide. 

Speak, and say, " Peacey he still I " 



EPITAPH 

OVEE THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AKD 
A YOUTH. 

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs. Hemans was fortu- 
nate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom 
she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whos» 
unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her chil- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



t2i 



Iran, that it is lioped the owner of a name so dear to them, 
(though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) 
will forgive its being introduced into these pages. 

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,i the mother 
of those " two brothers, a child and a youth," for whose 
monument Mrs. Ilemans had written an inscription, which, 
with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the 
heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing 
parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too, 
" Speaks the grave, 
Where God hath sealed the fount of hope He gave." 

Intr the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own 
Borrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoy- 
ments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken 
with a warmth and loving kindness which extended its 
genial influence to all belonging to her ; and during their 
Btay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, 
Mrs. Hemans and her children were cherished with a true 
home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderbum. — 
Memoir, p. 192.] 

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee, 

And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy, 
Come to this tomb ! — it hath a voice for thee • 

Pray ! Thou art blest — ask strength for sorrow's 
hour: 

Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. 

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth 

Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold 
All the heart's depths before thee bright with 
truth, 
All the mind's treasures silently unfold. 
Look on this tomb ! — for thee, too, speaks the 

grave, 
Where God hath sealed the fount of hope He 
gave. 



MONUMENTAL INSCIIIPTION. 

Earth ! guard what here we lay in holy trust. 
That which hath left our home a darkened 
place, 
Wanting the form, the smile, now veiled with 
dust, 
The light departed with our loveliest face. 
Ye*; from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is free - 
We have but lent the beautiful to thee. 

tJut thou, O Heaven ! keep, keep what thou hast 
taken. 
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high ; 



1 The lady of Sir David Wedderbum, Bart, and sister of the 
kte VLscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines 
ire inscribed is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden's seat. 
rhia excellent Kiy ooly survived Mrs. Ueraans a few years. 



The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken, 
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy — 
Guide us where these are with our sister flown 
They were of Thee, and thou hast claimed thinS 

nwn ' 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea I 

Forever and the same ; 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee — 

Those thunders nought can tame. 

O, many a glorious voice is gone 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute, that sighed of yor<» 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's av.'ful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone ; 
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs poured 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn that rang 
O'er stream and mountain free ; 

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang 
Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 

Through many an olden cKme, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

UntU the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound, 

Even as first it rolled. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange, 

Where sceptred cities rose ! 
Thou speak'st of One who doth not change 

So may our heart? fepose 



L22 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHILD AND DOVE. 

BCOOESTED BY CUANTREY's STATUE OF LADY LOUISA 
KUSSELL. 

Thou art a thing on our dreamd to rise, 
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, 
Aiid to fling bright dew from the morning back, 
Fair form ! on each image of childhood's track. 

Thou art a thing lo recall the hours 

SVhen the love of our souls was on leaves and 

flowers, 
SVhen a world was our ovm. in some dim sweet 

grove, 
And treasure untold in one captive dove. 

Are they gone ? can we think it, while thou art 

there, 
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair ? 
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free 
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on 

thee? 

No ! never more may we smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow ; 
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine — 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face. 
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, 
To have lingered before thee, and turned, and 

borne 
One vision away of the cloudless morn. 



A DIRGE. 

[The first two stanzas of this dirge may be found in the 
ast scene of " The Siege of Valencia ; " but they are more 
particularly worthy of the reader's consideration, as having 
»ftpn selected for inscription on tlie tablet placed above the 
raiilt beneath St. Ann's Church, Dublin, where the remains 
if the autlior repose.] 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit ! rest thee now ! 

Even while with us thy footstep trod. 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house benoath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
"Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 



But O, — a brighter home than oxm, 
In heaven, is now thine own. 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 

" O, fondly, fervently, those two had loved. 
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust ; 
Had watched bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful yeari ; 
And thus they met I " 

" Haste, with your torches, haste ! make fire* 

light round ! " — 
They speed, they press : what hath the miner 

found ? 
Relic or treasure — giant sword of old ? 
Gems bedded deep — rich veins of burning gold ? 

— Not so ! — the dead, the dead ! An awe- 

struck band 
In silence gathering round the silent stand. 
Chained by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, 
Before the thing that, in the might of death, 
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay — 
A sleeper, dreaming not ! — a youth with hair 
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair !) 
O'er his cold brow : no shadow of decay 
Had touched those pale, bright features — yet 

he wore 
A mien of other days, a garb of yore. 
Who could unfold that mystery? From the 

throng 
A woman wUdly broke ; her eye was dim. 
As if through many tears, through vigils long. 
Through weary strainings: — all had been for 

him ! 
Those two had loved ! And there he lay, the 

dead. 
In his youth's flower — and she, the living, stood, 
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had 

fled — 
And w^asted form, and cheek, whose flushing 

blood 
Had long since ebbed — a meeting sad and 

strange ! 

— O, are not meetings in this world of change 
Sadder than partings oft ? She stood there still, 
And mute, and gazing — all her soul to fill 
With the loved face once more — the young 

fair face, 
'Midst that rude cavern, touched with sculp- 
ture's grace. 
By torchlight and by death : until at last 
From her deep heart the spirit of the past 
Gushed in low broken tones : — " And there 

thou art ! 
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but pari 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4 'J J 



A.S for a few brief hours ! My friend, my friend ! 
First love, and only one ! Is this the end 
Of hope deferred, youth bhghted ! Yet thy brow 
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek. 
Smiles — how unchanged ! — while I, the worn, 

and weak, 
And faded — O, thou wouldst but scorn me now, 
If thou eouldst look on me ! — a withered leaf, 
Seared — though for thy sake — by the blast of 

grief ! 
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go 
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know. 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I called thee ! With the morning light 
How have I watched for thee ! — wept, wan- 
dered, prayed, 
Met the fierce mountain tempest, undismayed, 
In search of thee ! — bound my Avorn life to one — 
One torturing hope ! Now let me die ! 'Tis gone. 
Take thy betrothed ! " And on his breast she fell, 
O, since their youth's last passionate farewell. 
How changed in all but love ! — the true, the 

strong. 
Joining in death whom life had parted long ! 
They had one grave — one lonely bridal bed, 
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed ! 
His name had ceased — her heart outlived each 

tie, 
Once more to look on that dead face, and die ! 



ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF 
MEMORY. 

TO THE AIR OF " AM EHEIN, AM HHEIN 1 " 

BiNG, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, 

r iLr brethxen of the sword ! 

Oft at the fp'jtst, and in the fight, their voices 

Have mingled with our own ; 
Fil high tho cup ! but when the soul rejoices, 

Forget not who are gone. 

rh.ey that stood with us, 'midst the dead and 
dying, 

On Albuera's plain ; 
They that beside us cheerily tracked the flying. 

Far o'er the hills of Spain ; 

rhey that amidst us, when the sheHs were 
ahowerina: 
From old Rodrigo's wall, 



The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle 
towering. 
First, first at Victory's call ; 

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving 

In Roncesvalles' dell, 
With England's blood the southern vineyardi 
laving — 

Forget not how they fell ! 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



HAUNTED GROUND. 

" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Baclc on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside forever — it may be a sound, 
A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 

StriJdng th' electric train, wherewith we're darkly bound." 

Btbo^ 

Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene, 

Fair as it looks, and all softly green ; 

Yet fear not thou — for the spell is thrown. 

And the might of the shadow, on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays. 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ? 
O, in the heart there are stronger powers, 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours 

Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells. 
And loved, and sorrowed, and heard farewelb» 
And learned in my own deep soul to look. 
And tremble before that mysterious book ? 

Have I not, under these whispering leaves. 
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves 
Shadows — yet unto which life seemed bound ; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ? 

Must I not hear what thoti hearest not, 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ? 
Is there not something to rouse but me. 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 



Song hath been here, with its flow of thougH*. 
Love, with its passionate visions fraught ; 
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round ; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground i 

Are there no phantoms, but such as come 
By night from the darkness that wraps the torn). 



*24 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, 
Can summon up mightier far than these ! 

But I may not linger amidst them here ! 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear ; 
Passing and leaving a weight behind, 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. 

Away, away ! — that my soul may soar 
As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 
Here from its wing it may never cast 
The chain by those spirits brought back from 
the past. 

Doubt it not — smile not — but go thou, too. 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew — 
Where thou hast prayed at thy mother's knee. 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free ; 

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed. 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ; 
When from the idols thy heart hath made, 
Thou hast seen the colors of glory fade. 

O, painfully then, by the wind's low sigh, 

By the voice of the stream, by the flower cup's 

dye, 
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound. 
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted 

ground. 



THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS. 

WEIXTEN AFTER EEADINQ THE MEMOIRS OF 
JOHN HUNTER. 

[On one occasion, Mrs. Hemans was somewhat ludi- 
crously disenchanted, through the medium of a JVortk 
American Review, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, 
whose history (which suggested her little poem, " The Child 
of the Forests ") she had read with unquestioning faith and 
lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hun- 
ter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians — 
by whom he represented himself to have been carried away 
in childhood — were worked up into a plausible narrative, 
admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. 
But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged 
oy the following extract from a letter to a friend who had 
been similarly mystified : — "I send you a JVurth American 
RevitiD, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelli- 
gence that John Hunter — even our own John Dunn — the 
man of the panther's skin — the adopted of the Kansas — 
the shooter with the rifle — no, with the long bow — is, I 
olush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor ; no 
oetter than Psalmanazar ; no, no better than Carraboo her- 
lelf. ^ iter this, what are we to believe again f Are there 
any Loo Choo Islands ? Was there ever any Robinson 
Crusoe.' Is there any Rammohun Roy.' All one's faith 
and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sym- 
•athizefl with me proper'.y on this annoying occasion j but 



you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quiti 
as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself »'- 
Memoir, pp. 95, 96.] 

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, 
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust. 

And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, 
To the Great Spuit bows in silent trust ? 

Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, 

To pour itself upon the wilds again ? 

They are gone fjrth, the desert's warrior 
race. 
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe ; 
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, 

With thy free footstep and unfailing bow ? 
Their singing shafts have reached the panther's 

lair, 
And where art thou ? — thine arrows are not 
there. 

They rest beside their streams — the spoU i? 
won — 
They hang their speais upon the cypress 
bough ; 
The night fires blaze, the hunter's work is done — 
They hear the tales of old — but where ar^ 
thou? 
The night fires blaze beneath the giant pine. 
And there a place is filled that once was thine. 

For thou art mingling with the city's throng. 
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside ; 

Child of the forests ! thou art borne along. 
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. 

But will this be ? and canst thou here find 
rest ? 

Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert s breast. 

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear 
From the savanna land, the land of streams 

Hear' St thou not murmurs which none else may 
hear? 
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams ? 

They call — wild voices call thee o'er the mam, 

Back to thy free and boundless woods again. 

Hear them not ! hear them not ! — thou canst 
not find 
In the far wilderness what once was thine ! 
Thou hast quafled knowledge from the founts 
of mind, 
And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine. 
Thou know'st the soaring thought, th' immor- 
tal strain — 
Seek not the deserts and the woods again ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



424 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF * * *. 

In the full tide of melody and mirth, 

While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, 

Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from 
earth, 
Seems y^t to speak in strains that cannot die. 

Forget him not, for many a festal hour. 

Charmed by those strains, for us has lightly 
flown : 
And memory's visions, mingling with their 
power, 
"VVakf the heart's thrill at each familiar tone. 

Hlest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays 
Revive life's morning dreams, Avhen youth is 
fled. 

And, fraught with images of other days. 
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. 

His the dear art whose spells a while renew 
Hope' s first illusions in their tenderest bloom — 

0, what were life, unless such moments threw 
Bright gleams "like angel visits," o'er its 
gloom ? 



THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS. 

Yes ! thou hast met the sun's last smile 
From the haunted hills of Rome ; 

By many a bright ^gean isle 
Thou hast seen the billows foam. 

From the silence of the Pyramid, 
Thou hast watched the solemn flow 

Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 
The ancient realm below. 

Thy heart hath burned, as shepherds sung 

Some wild and warlike strain, 
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung 

Through the pealing hills of Spain. 

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 
Thou hast heard the laurels moan, 

With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams 
Of the glory that is gone. 

But go thou to the pastoral vales 

Of the Alpine mountains old, 
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales 

By thp wind's deep whispers told ! 
.54 



Go, if thou lov'st the soil to treaa 

Wliere man hath nobly striven, 
And life, like incense, hath been shed, 

An ofl'ering unto Heaven. 

For o'er the snows, and round the pinei, 

Hath swept a noble flood ; 
The nurture of the peasant's vines 

Hath been the martyr's blood ! 

A spirit, stronger than the sword, 

And loftier than despair, 
Through all th' heroic region poured. 

Breathes in the generous air. 

A memory clings to every steep 

Of long-enduring faith. 
And the soundhig streams glad record keej 

Of courage unto death. 

Ask of the peasant xohere his sires 

For truth and freedom bled ; 
Ask where were lit the torturing flres, 

Where lay the holy dead ; 

And he will tell thee, all around, 

On fount, and turf, and stone. 
Far as the chamois' foot can bound. 

Their ^shes have been sown ! 

Go, when the Sabbath bell is heard * 

Up through the wilds to float, 
When the dark old woods and caves are stirred 

To gladness by the note ; 

When forth, along their thousand rills, 

The mountain people come. 
Join thou their worship on those hills 

Of glorious martyrdom. 

And while the song of praise ascends, 

And while the torrent's voice, 
Like the swell of many an organ, blends, 

Then let thy soul rejoice. 

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn. 
Through shame, through death, made strong 



1 See Gili.y's Researches among the Mountains of Piia- 
mont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath day among tin 
upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of thes« 
Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair witli theii 
flocks and herds to the summit of the liills during the sum- 
mer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season 
of the year assemble on thar sacred dav t" worship iu '.iy 
open ''r. 



(26 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Before the rocks and heavens have borne 
Witness of God so long ! 



SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER. 

Pilgrim ! 0, say, hath thy cheek been fanned 
By the sweet wmds of my sunny land ? 
Krow'st thou the sound of its mountain pines ? 
Aiid liast thou rested beneath its vines ? 

Hast ti ou heard the music still wandering by, 
A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky, 
Floating away o'er hill and heath, 
With the mjTTtle's whisper, the citron's breath ? 

Then say, are there fairer vales than those 
Where the warbling of fountains forever flows ? 
Are there brighter flowers than mme own, which 

wave 
O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave ? 

O, sunshine and song ! they are lying far, 
By the streams that look to the western star ; 
My heart is fainting to hear once more 
The water voices of that sweet shore. 

Many were they that have died for thee. 

And brave, my Spain ! though thou art not free ; 

But I call them blest; they have rent their 

cham ; 
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain ! 



THE CONTADINA. 

WEITTEN FOR A riCTUEK. 

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine. 
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam's 

shrine ; 
And not.for the rich blue heaven that showers 
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers ; 
And not for the scent of the citron trees — 
Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow. 
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it 

throw ; 
And not foi- the lustre that laughs from thine 

eye, 
Fiike a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky, 
Though the south in its riches nought lovelier 

sees — 
^*ir peasant ! I call thee not bit st for tlieae. 



But for those breathing and loving things — 
For the boy's fond arm. that around thee* clings 
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, 
In the peace of a trusting child's repose — 
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breas^ 
O, richly, I call thee, and deeply blest ! 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 

The warrior crossed the ocean's foam 

For the stormy fields of war ; 
The maid was left in a smiling home 

And a sunny land afar. 

His voice was heard where javelin showers 

Poured on the steel-clad line ; 
Her step was 'midst the summer flowers, 

Her seat beneath the vine. 

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stained his crest ; 

While she — the gentlest wind of heaven 
Might scarcely fan her breast ! 

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, 
And again he crossed the seas : 

But she had died, as roses die 
That perish with a breeze — 

As roses die, when the blast is come 

For all things bright and fair : 
There was death within the smiling home - 

How had death found her there ? 



THE TREASURES OF THE' DEEP.» 

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored 
shells. 
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and 
in vain. 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! "What wealth 
untold. 
Far down, and shining through their stillness 
lies ! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 
Won from ton thousand royal argosies. 

1 Originally introduced in the " Forest 8anctaaiy/ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



42» 



Bweep o'er thy spoils, thou -wild and \NTathful 
main ! 

Earth claims not these again. 

Vet more, the depths have more ! Thy -waves 
have rolled 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Seaweed o'ergrown tlie halls of revelry. 
l)a«h o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ; 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more ! 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy 
breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar. 

The battle thunders will not break their rest. 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so 
long, 
I'he prayer went up through midnight's breath- 
less gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song. 
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down. 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble 
head, 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 
cro\A'n : 
Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the 
dead ! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from 
thee ! — 

Restore the dead, thou sea ! 

[" The only public mention that I have made of Mrs. 
Hemans," says Mr. Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter re- 
garding lier, with which we have been favored by that 
»xcellent man and distinguished poet, " was in a series of 
lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Roy- 
\\ Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of 
these, having to notice very briefly the 'Female Poets,' I 
laid, ' Mrs. Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out 
J new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and 
the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best 
pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that 
iprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.' I gave 
The Treasures of the Deep' as an example ; and, indeed, 
I know nothing in our language — of tlie kind and the char- 
acter I mean — comparable with it, either in conception or 
execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and 
commanding address: — The Ocean summonrd to give an 
account of all that it has been doing through six thousand 
rears, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the 



secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which po© 
try alone, of the purest order, can discover them. The lasl 
stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole." 

We beg to remind the author of "The World before th« 
Flood," and " Tlie Pelican Island," that the lectures to 
wliich he alhides have never been publisiied. They were 
flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal In- 
stitution, and before tlip literary societies of several of L*ie 
principal provincial towns of England ; and could not fail 
being acceptable to the groat readfig piinliCj as the recorded 
opinions concerning the IcsLding poets of Great Britain of pisl 
and jiresent tinies, dtlibctately formed by one of their i>wr 
number, who has himself written so inucii and so well, ana 
who, in popularity as a lyrist, has no superior among con 
temporaries.] 



BRING FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board. 
To wreathe the cup ere t'he wine is poured ! 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and 

vale ; 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale. 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the 

rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path ! 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath* 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day. 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell I 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell — 
Of the free blue streams, and the gloAving sky, 
And the bright world shut from hib languid eye } 
They will bear him a thought oi the sunny 

hours, 
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flow- 
ers, wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fres^ flowers, for the biide to 

wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's'mirth^ 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side. 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young 

bride ! 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead I 

For this through its leaves hath the white rosi 

burst. 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 



i2« 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



rhough they smile in vain for what once was 

ours, 
They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer — 
rhey are nature's offering, their place is there ! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart. 
With a voice of promise they come and part, 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright 

flowers ! 

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 

" Alas I the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair 
She had not known her child." 

Mabmion. 

Kest, pilgrim, rest ! Thou'rt from the Syrian 
land, 

Thou'rt from the wild and wondrous East, I 
know 
By the long withered palm branch in thy hand. 

And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. 
Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part 

So full of hope, for that far country's bourn ! 
Alas ! the weary and the changed in heart. 

And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at 
last: 
Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the 
breeze. 
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past. 

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou'rt faint and worn — hear'st thou the foun- 
tain welling 
By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine ? 
Beest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling ? 
— He that hath left me trained that loaded 
vine ! 

He was a.- child when thus the bower he wove, 

(O, hath a day fled since his childhood's time !) 
rhat I might sit and hear the sound I love. 
Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper 
chime. 
And sit thou there ! — for he was gentle ever ; 
With his glad voice he woidd have welcomed 
thee, 
Vnd brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched 
lips' fever. 
There in his place thou'rt resting — where is he ? 



If I could hear that laughing voice again. 

But once again ! How oft i» wanders by, 
In the still hours, like some remembered strain. 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! — 
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou 
seen 

In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido — with the fiery mien 

And the dark eye of this Italian shore ! 

The dark, clear, lightning eye ! On heaven w J 
earth 

It smiled — as if man were not dust it smile 1 . 
The very air seemed kindling with his mirth. 

And I — my heart grew young before my child i 
My blessed child ! — I had but him — yet he 

Filled all my home e'en with o'erflowing 

joy. 

Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free. 
Where is he now ? — my pride, my flower, 
my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, 
Like a spring dewdrop. Then his forehead 
wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light : 

I knew these woods might be his world no 
more ! 
He loved me — but he left me ! Thus they go 
Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too 
much adored ! 
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, 
And bounded from me with his father's sword 

Thou weep'st — I tremble ! Thou hast seen tho 
slain 
Pressing a bloody turf — the young and fair^ 
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 
Where hosts have met: speak! answer !-- 
was he there ? 
O, hath his smile departed ? Could the grave 
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless 
glee ? 

No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave 

That look gives hope — I knew it could not oe ' 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer ? Some tmd ULOtb- 
er's glance 

O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years — 
Think'st tliou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 

Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears ! 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou i 

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on 
Look up ! O, is it — that wan cheek and brow ! - - 

Is it — alas ! yet joy — my son, my son ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



454'- 



THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF 
A SPIRIT. 

rSOM THE OERMAir OF SCHILLEB. 

" 'Tis not merely 

The human being's pride that peoples space 

With life and mystical predominance ; 

Since likewise for tne stricken heart of love 

This visible nature, and this common world, 

Are all too narrow." — Coleridse's " Wallensteif." 

[This song is said to have been composed by SchiUer in 
aSfTver to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fats of 
Thekla, wliose beautiful character is withdrawn from the 
tragedy of Wallenstein^s Death, after her resolution to visit 
the grave of her lover is made known.] 

Ask'st thou my home ? — my pathway wouldst 
thou know, 
When from thine eye my floating shadow 
passed ? 
Was not my work fulfilled and closed below ? 
Had I not lived and loved ? My lot was cast. 

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is 
gone. 
That, melting into song her soul away, 
Gave the spring breeze what witched thee in its 
tone ? 
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep 
lay! 

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not 
found ? 
Yes ! we are one : O, trust me, wo have met, 
Where nought again may part what love hath 
bound, 
VVliere falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 

rhere shalt thou find us, there with us be blest, 
If, as our love, thy love is pure and true I 

There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest, 
Where the fierce murderer may no more 
pursue. 

And well he feels, no error of the dust 
Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken ; 

There it is with us even as is our trust — 
He that believes is near the holy then. 

There shall each feeling, beautiful and high. 
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day. 

^, fear thou not to dream with waking eye ! 
There lies ><!ep meaning oft in childish play. 



1 Walla isteui. 



THE REVELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

A swifter, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here — the fair face and the carelesi 

heart. 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 

But I met a dimly mournful glance. 

In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 

In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 

And it is not well that woe should breathe 

On the bright spring flowers of the festal 

wreath ! — 
Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! But who art thoxi 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young 

brow. 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes .'• 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too 

well ! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ) 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasurei 

forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth I 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while ' 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee - 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes j 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ! 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scone have fl&d, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds oj 
mirth — 

Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — Ring fortli again I 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine. 
And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine 
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud. 
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled 
cloud. 



130 



MISCELLANEOUS POEM^ 



I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee ! — thou fcarest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's 

might ! 
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain 

•wouldst shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — 

away ! — 

Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 
On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! — 
But where are the young and the lovely gone ? 
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crowned, 
And the floating forms with the bright zone 

bound ? 
And the waving locks and the flj^ing feet, 
Tliat stUl should be where the mirthful meet ? — 
They are gone — they are fled — they are parted 

aU: 

Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. 

Sleep 'midst thy banners furled ! 
Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying. 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the 

world ! 
Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother's 

breast. 
0, strong is night — for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow, 
^nd now might love keep timid vigils by thee. 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh 

thee, 
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers ! Now the field is 

won. 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son ! 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Bask from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring. 
Add all the windings of thy native stream. 
Why, this were joy ! Upon the tented plain, 
Dream on, thou C'^nqueror ! - be a child again ! 



But thou wilt wake at mom, 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping 
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'er 

sweeping ; 
So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born . 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee — the tired one, slumberii.g 

there ! 

Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine ! — and man must kneel befor? 

thee. 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee ! 
Shalt thou be stayed because thy brothei 

weeps ? — 
Wake ! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world, 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furled ! 

Forget that thou, even thou. 
Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'ei 

thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, 
And felt the night dew chill thy fevered brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press 

on ! — 
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



OUR LADY'S WELl 

Fount of the w^oods ! thou art hid no Tiore 
From heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore. 
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, 
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls ; 
And the dim tree shadows across thee pass, 
As the boughs are swayed o'er thy silvery glass \ 

1 A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asaph, former 
ly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated 
to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of 
pilgrims. 

[Those who only know the neighborhood of St. Asaph 
from travelling along its higliways, can be little aware how 
much delightful scenery is attainable within walks of two oi 
tliree miles' distar ce from Mrs. Hemans's residence. The 
placid beauty of the Chvyd, and the wilder graces of th* 
sister stream, the Ehvy, particularly in the vicinity of" Oiii 
Lady's Well," and ti)e interesting rocks and caves at Cefn, 
are little known to general tourists ; though, by the lovei» 
of her poetrj', it will be remenibered how sweetly she haa 
apostrophized the 

** Fount of the chnpel with nges gray ; " 
and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thoughH 
reverted to the . 

" Cambrian ri»er with Blow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and mined towers." 

— (Sonnet to the River Clwyd.) 

— Memoir, pp. 91, 93 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A^ 


A.nd the reddening leaves to thv breast are blown, 


Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 


When tl i autumn wind hath a stormy tone ; 


Thine hours have floated by, 


And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain — 


To the joyous birds of the woodJi'-'l b-.ugha 


Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 


The rangers of the sky ; 


Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more 


And brightly in the forests, 


By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, 


To the \vild deer wandering free ; 


When he came from afar, his beads to tell. 


And brightly, 'midst the garden flowera, 


And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 


To the happy murmuring bee : 


There is heard no Ave through thy bowers, 




Ihou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water flowers ! 


But how to human bosoms. 


But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, 


With all their hopes and fears, 


And there may the reaper his forehead lave, 


And thoughts that make them eagle wing«, 


And the woodman seeks thee not in vain — 


To pierce the unborn years ? 


Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 






Sweet Summer ! to the captive 


Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine ! 


Thou hast flown in burning dreams 


A voice that speaks of the past is thine ! 


Of the woods, with all their whispering learet 


It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh 


And the blue rejoicing streams ; - 


With the notes that ring through the laughing 




sky; 


To the wasted and the weary 


'Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird. 


On the bed of sickness bound, 


And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be 


In swift delirious fantasies. 


heard ! — 


That changed with every sound ; — 


Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, 




To the brilliant sunshine sparkling- free ? 


To the sailor on the billows, 


'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain — 


In longings, wild and vain. 


He hath made thee nature's own again ! 


For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 




And the homes of earth again ! 


Fount of the chapel wdth ages gray ! 




Thou art springing freshly amidst decay ; 


And unto me, glad Summer ! 


Thy rights are closed, and thy cross lies low. 


How hast thou flown to me ? 


And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now. 


Ml/ chainless footstep nought hath kept 


Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 


From thy haunts of song and glee. 


In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought ; 




If peace to the mourner hath here been given, 


Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 


Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven — 


In memories of the dead — 


Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall 


In shadows from a troubled heart, 


reign, 


O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 


WTio hath made thee nature's own again ! 






In brief and sudden strivings 




To fling a weight aside - 




'Midst these thy melodies have ceased. 


THE PARTING OF SUM^IER. 


And all thy roses died. 


Thou'bt bearing hence thy roses ; 


But 0, thou gentle Summer ! 


Glad Summer, fare thee well ! 


If I greet thy flowers once more, 


Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 


Bring me again the buoyancy 


In every wood and dell. 


Wherewith my soul should soar ! 


But ere the golden sunset 


Give me to hail thy sunshine 


Of thy latest lingering day. 


With song and spirit free ; 


O, tell me, o'er tliis checkered earth, 


Or in a purer air than this 


How hast thou passed away ? 


May that next meeting \» 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 

" Sing aloud 
Old songs, the precious music of the heart" 

WORDSWOETH. 

•Sing them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
A.nd the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight ! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved, 
And swell them through the torrent's roar, 

The songs our fathers loved ! — 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the bannered wall : 
The songs that through our valleys green, 

Sent on irom age to age, 
Like his own river s voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale, 

Cheered homeward through the leaves : 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep. 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be ! a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murmuring the names of mighty men. 

They bid our streams roll on. 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth. 

When evening fires burn clear. 
And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer. 
60 shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam. 
Call back the hearts which once it stirred. 

To cKxldhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain. 
The voices of their household band 

Shall breathe their names atrym ; 
The heathery hcignts in vision rise, 

Where, like tho stag, th.'^v roved. 



Sing to your sons those meioaies, 
The songs your fathers loved. 



THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. 

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies. 
To the world that is under the free blue skies ! 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care — 
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's ait 

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells 
A light, all made for the poet, dwells — 
A light, colored softly by tender leaves, 
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. 

The stock dove is there in the beechen tree, 
And the lulling tone of the honey bee ; 
And the voice of cool waters 'midst featherj' fern, 
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. 

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless 

mirth. 
Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, 

have birth ; 
There is peace where the alders are whispering 

low : 
Come from man's dwellings with all their woe ! 

Yes ! we will come — we will leave behind 
The homes and the sorrows of humankind. 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright-blue vein along sunny meads : 

It is well through the rich M'ild woods to go. 
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe ; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs. 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly 
stings ; 

And to watch the colore that flit and pass. 
With insect wings, through the wavy grass ; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash tree's bark, 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliagt 
dark. 

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea : 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow 
We will bear no memory of earthry woe 

But if, by the forest brook, we meet 
A line like the pathway of former fec-t ; 
Tf, 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot, 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot; — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMis. 43a 


If the cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed, 


Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 


Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ; 


And steadfast love of years ; 


Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave, 


The kindly, that from childhood grew, 


Bear token sad of a mortal grave, — 


The faithful to thy tears ! 




If there be one that o'er the dead 


Doubt not but there will oar steps be stayed. 


Hath in thy grief borne part. 


There our quick spirits a while delayed ; 


And watched through sickness by thy bed. 


There will thought fix our impatient eyes, 


Call his a kindred heart ! 


And nin back our hearts to their sjonpathies. 






But for those bonds all perfect made. 


Vor what though the moun-tains and skies be 


Wherein bright spirits blend. 


fair, 


Like sister floA\ ers of one sweet shade 


Steeped in soft hues of the summer air ? 


With the same breeze that bend — 


Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, 


For that full bliss of thought allie'' 


That lights up all nature with living gleams. 


Never to mortals given, • 




0, lay thy lovely dreams aside, 


Where it hath suffered and nobly striven, 


Or lift them unto Heaven 


Where it hath poured forth its vows to Heaven ; 




Where to repose it hath brightly passed, 




O'er this green earth there is glory cast. 






THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE Oi 


And by that soul, 'midst groves and rills. 


THE NILE. 


d.nd flocks that feed on a thousand hills. 




Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 


In sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown. 


We, only we, may be linked to God ' 


A wanderer proudly stood 




Beside the wellspring, deep and lone. 




Of Egypt's awful flood — 




The cradle of that mighty birth, 


KINDRED HEARTS. 


So long a hidden thing to earth ! 


O, ASK not, hope thou not too much 




Of sympathy below ! 


He heard its life's first murmuring: sound. 


Few are the hearts whence one same touch 


A low mysterious tone — 


Bids the sweet fountains flow — 


A music sought, but never found 


Few, and by s*ill conflicting powers 


By kings and warriors 2v ae. 


Forbidden here to meet : 


He listened — and his heart beat high : 


Such ties would make this life of ours 


That was the song of victoiy ! 


Too fair for aught so fleet. 






The rapture of a conqueror's moou 


It may be that thy brother's eye 


Rushed burning through his frame. 


Sees not as thine, which turns 


The depths of that green solitude 


In such deep reverence to the sky, 


Its torrents could not tame : 


Where the rich sunset burns : 


Though stillness lay, with eve's last smil^ 


It may be that the breath of spring. 


Round those far fountains of the Nile. 


Born amidst violets lone, 




A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 


Night came with stars. Across his soul 


A dream, to his unknown. 


There swept a sudden change : 




E'en at the jjilgrim's glorious goal, 


The tune that speaks of other times — 


A shiidow dark and strange 


A sorrowful delight ! 


Breathed from the thought, so swift to fali 


The mei.ody of distant chimes. 


O'er triumph's hour — and is this allf^ 


The sound of waves by nig'j.t. 




The wind, that, with so many a tone, 




Some chord wdthin can thrill, — 


1 Bruce's mingled feelings on arriving at the source of tlu 


These may have language all thine own, 


Nile are thus portrayed by him : — " I w as, at that very 
moment, in possession of what had for ir.iny vears been thfl 


To him a mystery still. 


principal object of my ambition and wishes j inaiflerenc« 



•34 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


No more than this ! What seemed it now 


A creature of heroic blood, 


First by that spi ing to stand ? 


A proud, though childlike form. 


A thousand streams of lovelier flow 




Bathed his own mountain land ! 


T- e flames rolled on — he would not go 


Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 


Without his father's word ; 


Their wild, sweet voices called him back. 


That father, faint in death below. 




His voice no longer heard. 


They called him back to many a glade, 




His childhood's haunt of play. 


He called aloud : — «' Say, father ! say 


Where brightly through the beechen shade 


If yet my task is done ! " 


Their waters glanced away ; 


He knew not that the chieftain lay 


ITiey called him, with their sounding waves, 


Unconscious of his son. 


Back to his father's hills and graves. 






" Speak, father ! " once again he cried. 


But, darkly mingling with the thought 


** If I may yet be gone ! " 


Of each familiar scene. 


And but the booming shots replied, 


Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 


And fast the flames rolled on. 


With all that lay between — 




The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 


Upon his brow he felt their breath, 


The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 


And in his waving hair. 




And looked from that lone post of death 


Where was the glow of power and pride ? 


In still yet brave despair ; 


The spirit born to roam r 




His altered heart within him died 


And shouted but once more a^oud. 


With yearnings for his home ! 


" My father ! must I stay > ' 


All vainly struggling to repress 


While o'er him fast, through rfail and shroud 


Tliat gush of painful tenderness. 


The wreathing fires made way. 


He wept ! The stars of Afric's heaven 


They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 


Beheld his bursting tears. 


They caught the flag on high, 


E'en on that spot where fate had given 


And streamed above the gallant child 


The meed of toiling years ! 


Like banners in the sky. 


Happiness ! how far we flee 




Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 


There came a burst of thunder sound — 




The boy — 0, where was he ? 




Ask of the winds that far around 


CASABIANCA.^ 


With fragments strewed the sea ! 


The boy stood on the burning deck. 


With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 


Whence all but he had fled ; 


That well had borne their part ; 


The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 


But the noblest thing which perished there 
Was that young faithful heart ! 


Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 




As born to rule the storm — 




ivhich, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, 


THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.' 


»t least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of 
it. The marsh and the fountains of the Nile, upon com- 
parison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a 


'TwAS a lovely thought to mark the hours, 
As they floated in light away. 


Irifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent 
3«ene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, 


Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the 


»nd Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to 


guns had been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of 


treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent 


the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. 


sflbrt of a distempered fancy." 


2 This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnasus, and marked 


1 Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son 


the hours by the opening and closing, at tegular interval* 


V the Vduiiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the 


of the flowers arranged in it 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



By the opening and the folding flowers, 
That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 

And its graceful cup and bell, 
In whose colored vase might sleep the dew, 

Like a pearl in an ocean shell. 

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 

In a golden current on, 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode. 

The glorious guests Avere gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told — 
Those days of song and dreams — 

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

"^o in those isles of delight, that rest 

Ear off in a breezeless main, 
\\Tiich many a bark, with a weary quest. 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 

^Marked thus — even thus — on earth. 

By the closing of one hope's delight, 
And another's gentle birth ? 

O, let us live, so that flower by flower. 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 



OUR DAILY PATHS.' 

Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings." Wordsworth. 

Thitb 3 beauty all around our paths, if but our 

watchful eyes 
Can t-^ace it 'midst familiar things, and through 

their lowly guise ; 

1 This little poem derives an additional interest from be- 
ng affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished 
Ihan that of the late Mr. Diigald Stewart. The admiration 
be always expressed for Mrs. Hemans's poetry was mingled 
with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy 
lubjocts ; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mu- 
tual fnend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would 
Bmploj her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of 
the wa"*s of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into 
ilie bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, 
*vhicl.,ne thought, would be more consonant with the pious 
•vitad And 1 ving heart lisplayed in every line she wrote, 



We may find it where a hedgerow showers iti 

blossoms o'er our way, 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the lasr 

red light of day. 

"We may find it where a spring shines clear be- 
neath an aged tree. 

With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, bcrni 
downwards by the bee ; 

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on thebircher. 
stems is thrown. 

As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copse 5 
green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they 
cross the cold blue sky, 

While soft on icy pool and stream their pen- 
cilled shadows lie, 

When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy 
frostwork bound. 

Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a showei 
of crystals to the ground. 

Y'es ! beaut}' dwells in aU our paths — but sorrow 
too is there : 

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, 
still summer air ! 

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst 
the joyous things. 

That through the leafy places glance on many- 
colored wings. 

With shadows from the past we fill the happy 

woodland shades. 
And a mournful memory of the dead is with m 

in the glades ; 



tlian dwelling on what was painful and depressing, howevei 
beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of 
This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by re- 
turn of post, Mrs. ffemans (who was then resid.ng in Wales) 
sent to tlie kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the 
poem of " Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given 
to Mr, Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for th» 
interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason 
of the mournful strain which pervaded them, " that a r'oud 
hung over Jier life which she could not always rise above." 
The letter reached Mr. Stewart just as he was stepping 
into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil 
House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh 
— the last time, alas ! his presence was ever to gladden tha* 
happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortlj 
afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on 
his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the high- 
est degree ciiarnied and gratified with the result of his sug 
gestions ; and some of the lines which pleased him nion 
particularly were often repeated to him during the fe» 
remaining weeks of his life. 



no 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And our droam-like fancies lend the wind an 
echo's plaintive tone 

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laugh- 
ter gone. 

But are we free to do e'en thus — to wander as 

we will, 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er 

the breezy hill ? 
No I in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes 

bind us fast, 
\\Tiile from their narrow round we see the 

golden day fleet past. 

Thej hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and 

violet dingles, back, 
And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in 

the shining river's track ; 
They bar us from our heritage of spring time, 

hope, and mirth, 
And weigh our burdened spirits dovm. -with the 

cumbering dust of earth. 

Yet should this be ? Too much, too soon, de- 

spondingly we yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of 

the field ! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven — which tell 

us, in their flight. 
Of One that through the desert air forever guides 

them right. 

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and 
bid vain conflicts cease ? 

Ay, when they commune with themselves in 
holy hours of peace, 

And feel that by the lights and clouds through 
which our pathway lies, 

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are train- 
ing for the skies ! 



THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. 

BiLENT and mournful sat an Indian chief, 
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 

His eyes, that »night not weep, were dark with 
grief. 
And his arms folded in majestic gloom ; 

And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound 

Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 

Pot a pale cross above its greensward rose. 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 



Man's heart and hope had struggled with hii 

woes, 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 
Now all was hushed ; and eve's last splendoi 

shone 
With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. 

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, 
And he too paused in reverence by that grave, 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave ; 

Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak, 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — 
«' I listened for the words, which, years ago, 

Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is 
fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, 

Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

** Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath } 
I was an eagle in my youthful pride, 

When o'er the seas he came, with summer's 
breath, 
To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 

Many the times of flowers have been since then — 

Many, but bringing nought like him again ! 

«*Not with the hunter's bow and spear he 
came, 

O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, 

Laying their cedars, like the cornstalks, low; 
But to spread tidings of all holy things, 
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's 



*' Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth are gone. 

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery 
tone ? 

He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, 

And our hearts burned within us as he spoke. 

«' He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 

Beyond the dust Avhercin our fathers dwell ; 
Bright must they be ! for there are none that 
die. 
And none that weep, and none that say ♦ Fare' 
well ! ' 
He came to guide us thither ; but away 
The Happy called him, and he might not stay 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



♦ We saw liim slowly fade — athirst, perchance, 

For the fresh waters of that lovely clime ; 
Vet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time : 
Therefore we hoped ; but now the lake looks dim, 
For the green summer comes — and finds not 
him I 

* We gathered round him in the dewy hour 

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 

Came low, like meanings of a distant sea ; 
But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long, 
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

•• And then once more they trembled on his 
tongue, 
Ind his white eyelids fluttered, and his head 

i^'ell back, and mist upon his forehead hung 

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the 
dead ? 
It is enough ! he sank upon my breast — 
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest ! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray. 

By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 
We reared this cross in token where he lay. 

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died. 
Now hath ne surely reached, o'er mount and 

wave, 
That flowery land whose green turf hides no 
grave. 

•* But I am sad ! I mourn the clear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whope place it 
shone, 
The pathway to the better shore forsaken, 

And the true words forgotten, save by one, 
Who hears them faintly sounding from the 

past. 
Mingled with death songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling 
eye — 
*• Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 
iTiough the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ! 
Heaven darkly works ; yet, where the seed hath 

been, 
there shall the fruitage glowing yet be seen. 

'^ Hope on, hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 

.A.nd by ti.e bursts o.^ fret, triumpht^nt singing. 
After cold silent months, the woods among ; 



And by the rending of the frozen chains. 
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains 

" Deem not the words of light that here weru 
spoken 
But as a lovely song, to leave no trrce 
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy h, Ua •?>• 
broken. 
And the full dayspring rise upon thy racft ! 
And fading mists the better path disclose, 
And the wide desert blossom as the rose.'* 

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild, 

Each fraught with musings for life's after daj', 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child. 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon owe, 'midst busy throngs to press, 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 

[" ' The Cross in the Wilderness,' by Mrs. Ilemans, is in 
every way worthy of her dehghtful genius ; and nothing bul 
want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mra 
Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in th« 
hemisphere ; and in every thing she writes, there is, along 
with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and 
religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs 
Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly 
feminine — no false glitter about her — no ostentatious di.** 
play — no gaudy and jingling ornaments — but, as an Eng 
lish matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant 
and religious." — Professor Wilson, in Blackwood^s Mas 
aitne, December, 1826.] 



LAST RITES. 

By the mighty minster's bell, 
TolUng with a sudden swell ; 
By the colors half mast high, 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; 

Know, a prince hath died ! 

By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone. 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 

In his manhood's pride. 

By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hiUs,* 
Learn, that from his harvestu done, 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 

Through the yew trees gleaming bright , 

' A custom rtill recHinea at rural fui.erals tn soma yan 
of England and Wales 



1 3b 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



By the garhind on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken is the rose ! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all ? 
Buried virgin's coronal, 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farervvell gun for warrior dead, 

Herdsman's funeral hymn ? 

Tells not each of human woe ? 
Each of hope and strength brought low ? 
Number each with holy things, 
If one chastening thought it brings 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE HEBREW MOTHER.' 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain. 
When a young mother, with her first born, thence 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vowed 
Unto the Temple service. By the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while. 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers. 
To bring before her God. So passed they on 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon. 
Like lulling raindrops, or the olive boughs, 
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might 

rest ; 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and 

watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 
Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades 
Making its bank green gems along the wild. 
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave 
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips. 
And softly parting clusters of jet curls 
To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reached. 
The earth's one sanctuary — and rapture hushed 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 
In light like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 

1 ' It is long since we have read any tiling more beautiful 
<]'an the ttllowinf,' poem by Mrs. lloni vns." — BlackwoviVs 
iinTtinnt. January. 182G. 



Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, 
Turned from the white-robed priest, and round 

her arm 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring tida 
Of nature then swelled high, and o'er hei 

chHd 
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. " Alas ! " she cried^ 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes ; 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords agaip to earth have won me, 
And like a vine thou /^laspest my full heart — 

How shall I hencn depart ? 

*' How the lone paths retrace where thou wer* 

playing 
So late, along the mour.tains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pnde, 
By every place of floweis my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the Jvlies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And, O, the home whence thy Vight smila 

hath parted, 
"Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away ? 
"While through its chambers wandering, weary 

hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 
"Went like a singing rill ? 

'* Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet 

me, 
When from the fount at evening I return. 

With the full water urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings 

greet me. 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, 
And watch for thy dear sake. 

"And thou — wiU slumber's dewy cloud fall 

round thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy b* d ? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 

thee, 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 
A cry which none shall hear ? 

♦* What have I said, my child ! Will He not heal 

thee. 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest 
ShaU he not guard thv rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ^f* 


A.nd, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, 


Yet, by that rigid lip and brow. 


Ureathe o'er my soul, and fill its dreams with 


Not without strife he died. 


joy? 


And near him on the seaweed lay — 


Thou Shalt sleep soft, my boy. 


Till then we had not wept — 




But well our gushing hearts might Bey 


• 1 give thee to thy God — the God that gave 

t>.€e, 
A. ■»« jllspring of deep gladness to my heart ! 


That there a mother slept ! 


For her pale arms a babe had pressed 


And, precious as thou art. 


With such a wreathing grasp, 


And pure as dew of Hermon, he shall have thee, 


Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, 


My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 


Yet not undone the clasp. 


And thou shalt be his child. 


Her very tresses had been flung 




To wrap the fair child's form. 


•♦ Therefore, farewell ! I go — my soul may fail 


Where still their wet long streamers hmig 


me. 


All tangled by the storm. 


As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 




Yearning for thy sweet looks. 


And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene. 


But thou, my first bom, droop not, nor bewail 


Gleamed up the boy's dead face, 


me ; 


Like slumber's, trustingly serene, 


Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 


In melancholy grace. 


The Rock of Strength. FareweU ! " 


Deep in her bosom lay his head, 




With half-shut, violet eye — 





He had known little of her dread, 




Nought of her agony. 


THE WRECK. 


human love ! whose yearning hean, 


All night the booming minute gun 


Through all things vainly true^ 


Had pealed along the deep. 


So stamps upon thy mortal part 


Ana mournfully the rising sun 


Its passionate adieu — 


Looked o'er the tide- worn steep. 


Surely thou hast another lot : 


A bark from India's coral strand, 


There is some home for thee, 


Before the raging blast. 


Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 


Had veiled her topsails to the sand, 


The moaning of the sea ! 


And bowed her noble mast. 




The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 




And true ones died with her ! 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 


THE TRUMPET. 


Like floating gossamer. 


The trumpet's voice hath roused tlie land 


We saw her proud flag struck that morn,— 


Light up the beacon pyre ! 


A star once o'er the seas, — 


A hundred hills have seen the brand, 


Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 


And waved the sign of fire. 


And sadder things than these ! 


A hundred banners to the breeze 




Their gorgeous folds have cast — 


1 We saw her treasures cast away, 


And, hark ! was that the sound of 3eas > 


riie rocks with pearls were sown ; 


A king to war went past. 


And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray 




Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 


The chief is arming in his hall. 


And gold Avas strewn the wet sands o'er, 


The peasant by his hearth ; 


Like ashes by a breeze ; 


The mourner hears the thrilling call. 


And gorgeous robes — but 0, that shore 


And rises from the earth. 


Had sadder things than these ! 


The mother on her first-born son 




Looks with a boding eye — 


We saw the strong man still and low. 


Thei/ come not back, though all be won. 


A crushed reed thrown aside ; 


Whose young hearts leap so high. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMb. 



The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falcliion to his side ; 
E'en, for the marriage altar crowned, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear. 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How -will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ? 



EVENING PRAYER, 

AT A girl's school. 

■ Now in thy youth, beseech of Him 
Who give^h, upbraiding not, 
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 

And iiis love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Bernard Babtox. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room 
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp 

sheds 
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, do\vn on fair young 

heads, 
With all their clustering locks, untouched by 

care, 
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in 

prayer. 

Gaze on — 'tis lovely ! Childhood's lip and 
cheek, 
Manthng beneath its earnest brow of thought ! 
Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and 
meek. 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine 
wrought ? — 
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky. 
What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. 

As birds with slumber's honey dew oppressed, 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark Ln the summer heaven of those clear eyes. 

rhoug^h fresh within your breasts the untrou- 
bled springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the 
wings 
Of spirits visiting b\it youth, be spread ; 
Vet in those flute- like 7oice3. mmghng low, 
*!* woman's tendevnosj — how scon her woe ! 



Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through suffei 
ing's hoiir. 

And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 
To pour on broken reeds — a wasted showei 

And to make idols, and to find them clay. 

And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray ' 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired. 

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be 
vain ; 
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer dec^-y. 
And, O, to love through all things. Therefore 
pray; 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery 

Hght, 
On through the dark days fading from theii 

prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from 

blight! ■• 
Earth wLQ forsake — O, happy to have given 
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance untt 

heaven. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

" H est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a I'idee meme qn'oii 
redoute." — Corinne. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breatL, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care ; 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth ■■ 
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 

prayer ; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour — of mirth, and song, and wine , 
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming 

power, 
A time for softer tears — but aU are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glcrious for decay. 

And smile at thee - - but thou art not of thos* 
That wait the rijiened I loom to seize itiev 

prey. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



44) 



Leaves have their time to fall 
Ajid flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Phou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea. 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 

grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam ; 
t'hou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; 
A.nd the world calls us forth — and thou art 

there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; 
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 

rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely 

crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
Ajid flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

I* Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." — Bykon. 

Akd is there glory from the heavens departed ? 

O void unmarked ! — thy sisters of the sky 

Still hold their place on high. 

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath 

started, 

Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence, 
Though thou art exiled thence — 
No desert seems to part those urns of light, 

'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 

rhey rise m joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains 
fre=i ; 
And from the silvery sea 
56 



To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned 
for thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant placQ 
Even as a dewdrop from the myrtle spray, 
SAvept by the w^ind awaj ? 
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
And was there power to smite them with de- 
cay r 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sieeptres nven 
Bowed be ovir hearts to think on what we aie\ 
When from its height afar 

A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 
Shines not the less for that one vanished star 



THE CLIFFS OF DOVEK 

" The inviolate Island of the sage and free."— Btboh 

Rocks of my coiintry ! let the cloud 

Your crested heights array. 
And rise ye like a fortress proud 

Above the surge and spray I 

^ly spirit greets you as ye stand, 
Breasting the billow's foam : 

O, thus forever guard the land, 
The severed land of home I 

I have left rich blue skies behindv 

Lighting up classic shrines, 
And music in the southern wind. 

And sunshine on the vines. 

The breathings of the myrtle floweii» 

Have floated o'er my w^ay ; 
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours. 

Hath soothed me with its lay. 

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, 
The purple heavens of llome, — 

Yes, all are glorious, — yet again 
I bless thee, land of home ! 

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land i 
And thine the guarded hearth ; 

And thine the dead — the noble band 
That make thee holy earth. 

Their voices meet me in thy breeze. 
Their steps are on thy plains ; 

Their i.ames, by nld majestic trees. 
Are whispered round thy fanes. 



142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Their blood hath mingled with the tide 




Of thine exulting sea ; 


THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 


0, be it stul a joy, a pride, 


" Pregar, pregar, pregar, 


To live and die for thee ! 


Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati ? " Ali llkj 




Child, amidst the flowers at play, 




W^hile the red light fades away ; 


THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 


Mother, with thine earnest eye 


The kings of o^d have shrine and tomb 


Ever following silently ; 


In many a minster's haughty gloom ; 


Father, by the breeze of eve 


And green, along the ocean side. 


Called thy harvest work to leave — 


The mounds arise where heroes died ; 


Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 


But show me, on thy flowery breast, 


Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 


Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 






Traveller, in the stranger's land. 


The thousands that, uncheered by praise. 


Far from thine 0A\'n household band ; 


Have made one offering of their days ; 


Mourner, haunted by the tone 


For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, 


Of a voice from this world gone ; 


Resigned the bitter cup to take ; 


Captive, in whose narrow cell 


And silently, in fearless faith, 


Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 


Bowing their noble souls to death. 


Sailor on the darkening sea — 




Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 


Where sleep they, Earth ? By no proud stone 




Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 


Warrior, that from battle won 


The still sad glory of their name 


Breathest now at set of sun ; 


Hallows no fountain unto fame ; 


Woman, o'er the lowly slain 


No — not a tree the record bears 


Weeping on his burial plain ; 


Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 


Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 




Kindred by one holy tie. 


Yet haply all around lie strewed 


Heaven's first star alike ye see — 


Tlie ashes of that multitude : 


Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 


It may be that each day we tread 




Where thus devoted hearts have bled ; 




And the young flowers our children sow, 




Take root in holy dust below. 






THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE 


that the many rustling leaves. 


PRODIGAL. 


Which round our homes the summer weaves, 




Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 


" Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Manem, 
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind ; 


Our own familiar paths rejoice. 


Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern ? 


Might whisper though the starry sky, 


Komm' Bpielen, du freundliches Kind I " 

La. Mottb FouQirs 


To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 






0, WHEN wilt thou return 


Would not our inmost hearts be stilled, 


To thy spirit's early loves ? 


Witi knowledge of their presence filled. 


To the freshness of the morn, 


And by its breathings taught to prize 


To the stiDuess of the groves ? 


The meekness of self-sacrifice ? 




- But the old woods and sounding waves 


The summer birds are calling 


Are silent of those hidden graves. 


Thy household porch around, 




And the merry waters falling 


Yet what if no light footstep there 


With sweet laughter in their sound. 


In pilgrim love and awe repair. 




So let it be ! Like him, whose clay 


And a thousand bright- veined flowers, 


Deep buried by his Maker lay. 


From their banks of moss and fern. 


They sleep in secret — but their sod, 


Breathe of the sunny hours — 


^ 'nknown to man. is marked of God ! 


But when wilt thou letum ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



444 



O, thou hast wandered long 
From thy liome without a guide ; 

And thy native woodland song 
In thine altered heart hath died. 

Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy spring ; 

And to thee the leaves' light play 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 

But when wilt thou return ? — 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower, within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed the noon. 

O'er the image of the sky. 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 
Darkly may -shadows lie — 

But not forevermore. 

(iive back thy heart again 
To the freedom of the woods, 

To the birds' triumphant strain, 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

JJut when wilt thou return ? 

Along thine own pure air 
There are young sweet voices borne — 

O, should not thine be there ? 

Still at thy father's board 
There is kept a place for thee ; 

And, by thy smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye, 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look cf days gone by, 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said, 
For thee kind bosoms yearn, 

For thee fond tears are shed — 
O, when wilt thou return ? 



THE WAKENING. 

Ho"w many thousands are wakening now ! 
Borne to the songs from the forest bough. 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane, 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some, far out on the deep mid sea, 

To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee 



As they break into spray on the ship's ta'-l «\dek 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 

And some — O, well may their hearts rejoice I — 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice : 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone. 
When from the board and the tearth tis gone. 

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath, 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun. 
Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 

And some, in the gloomy convict cell, 

To the dull deep note of the warning bell, 

As it heavily calls them forth to die. 

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's hom> 
And some to the din from the city borne, 
And some to the rolling of torrent floods, 
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods. 

So are we roused on this checkered earth : 
Each unto light hath a daily bu'th ; 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweot, 
Are the voices which fijst our upspringing me**' 

But 07ie must the sound be, and one the call. 
Which from the dust shall awaken us all : 
One ! — but to severed and distant dooms. 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs > 



THE BREEZE FROM SHORE. 

[" Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, bringi 
back the freslniess of youthful feeling, revives tJie relish of 
simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasui vvhicb 
wanned the spring time of our being, refines youthful love, 
strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineJi< 
tions of its tenderest and loftiest feelings; and, tl)rough th« 
brightness of its prophetic visions, heli)s faith to lay hold oa 
the future life." — Chanmxg.] 

Joy is upon the lonely seas, 
When Ir dian forests pour 
Forth, to t le billow and the breeze, 
Their od jrs from the shore ; 
Joy, when tie soft air's fanning sigh 
Bears on the breath of Araby. 

O, welcome are the "winds that tell 

A Avandercr of the deep 
Where, far a-.vay, the jasmines dwell, 

And where the myrrh trees weep ! 



144 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Blest on the sounding surge and foam 
Are tidings of the citron's home ! 

The sailor at the helm they meet, 

And hope his bosom stirs, 
Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet 
The fair earth's messengers. 
That woo him, from the moaning main. 
Back to her glorious bowers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade. 
And fount's bright gleam, in island vales 
Of golden-fruited shade : 
A.cross his lone ship's wake they bring 
A. vision and a glow of spring. 

And, O ye masters of the lay ! 

Come not even thus your songs 
That meet us on life's weary way, 
Amidst her toiling throngs ? 
Sfea I o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air. 

Their power is from the brighter clime 

That in our bu-th hath part ; 
Their tones are of the world, which time 
Sears not within the heart : 
They tell us of the living light 
In its green places ever bright. 

They call us with a voice divine, 

Back to our early love, — 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine, 
"Whence far and fast we rove. 
Welcome high thought and holy strain 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again ! 



THE DYING IMPROVISATOR.^ 

* My heart ihoU be poured over thee — and break." 

Pkophecy of Dai^te. 

The spirit of my land. 
It yieits me once more ! — though ~ must die 
Far from the mjTtles which thy reeze hath 
fanned, 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath. 
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 

.' Sesfini, tlio Roman imorovis.nor, when nn his death 
Bed at Pan?, is said to (nvn poured foiih a Farewell to Italy, 
ai his must iiiipassinned |>oetry. 



Is shaken by the Avind, — in life and death 
Still trembling, yet the same ! 

O that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 
And through thy groves its dying music shower 

Italy ! Italy ! 

The nightingale is there, 
The sunbeam's glow, the citron flower's per 

fume, 
The south wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, O, nevermore. 
On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shaU 

dwell. 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy 
shore — 
My Italy ! farewell ! 

Alas ! — thy hills among 
Had I but left a memory of my name, 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, 

Unto immortal fame ! 

But like a lute's brief tone, 
Like a rose odor on the breezes cast. 
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, 

So hath my spirit passed — 

Pouring itself away 
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, oi 
burns. 

Into a fleeting lay ; 

That swells, and floats, and dies, 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassioned sigh* 

Which thrilled their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 
When from my bosom, joyously and free, 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the starlit sea. 
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue, 

Sweet friends ! remember me 1 

And in the marble halls, 
Wliere life's fuL glow the dreams of beautj 
wear. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



14,1 



Knd poet tnoughts embodied light the walls, 
Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind, for you, 
My memory with all glorious things to dweU ! 
Faitt bid all lovely sounds my name renew — 

Sweet friends ! bright land ! farewell ! 



MUSIC OP YESTERDAY. 

* O, mein Geist, ich fuhle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberir- 
dischem, das keinem Menschen gegonnt ist" — Tieck. 

The chord, the harp's full chord is hushed, 

The voice hath died away, 
Whence music, like sweet waters, gushed 

But yesterday. 

Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell. 

The full o'ersweeping tone, 
rhe sounds that sighed " Farewell, farewell ! " 

Are gone — all gone ! 



The love, whose fervent spirit passed 
With the rich measure's flow ; 

rhe grief, to which it sank at last — 
Where are they now ? 

rhey are with the scents by summer's breath 
Borne from a rose now shed : 

With the words from lips long sealed in death - 
Forever fled. 

The sea shell of its native deep 

A moaning thrill retains ; 
But earth and air no record keep 

Of parted strains. 

And all the memories, all the dreams, 

They woke in floating by ; 
The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams — 

Could these too die ? 

They died ! As on the water's breast 

The ripple melts away. 
When the breeze that stirred it sinks to rest — 

So perished they ! 

Jklysterious in their sudden birth, 

And mournful in their close. 

Passing, and finding not on earth 
Aim or repose. 



Whence were they ? — like the breath of flowen 

AVhy thus to come and go r* 
A long, long journey must be ours 

Ere this we know ! 



THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 

" Was mir fehlt ?— Mir fehlt ja alles, 
Bin 80 ganz verlassen liier t " 

Tyrolese Melodt. 

The hearth, the hearth is desolate ! the fire ii 

quenched and gone 
That into happy children's eyes once brightly 

laughing shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hushed 

through day and night. 
O for one kind, one sunny face, of all that 

there made light I 

But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by 

mount and shore, 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed 

to meet no more. 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's 

joy or mirth, 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home — alas ' 

the lonely hearth ! 

The voices that have mingled here now spea> 

another tongue. 
Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs 

their mother sung. 
Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound 

each household tone : 
The hearth, the hearth is desolaie ! the bright 

fixe quenched and gone ! 

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in theii 

days of glee ? 
Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on 

earth or sea ? 
O, some are hushed and some are changed, and 

never shall one strain 
l^lend their fraternal cadences triumphantly 

again. 

And of the hearts that here were lirked by long 

remembered years, 
Alas ! the brother knows not now -vhen fall the 

sister's tears ! 
One haply revels at the feast, whLe one may 

droop alone : 
For broken is the household chain, the bright 

fire quenched and gone ! 



146 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMfS. 



Not so — 'tis iiot a broken chain : thy memory 

binds them s*jll, 
rhou holy hearth of other days ! though silent 

now and chill. 
The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine 

attesting stone, 
"Byrt yet a living power to mark thy children 

for thine own. 

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though 

called from earth away, 
Witli muf^ic rising from the dead, their spirits 

yet shall sway ; 
And by ths past, and by the grave, the parted 

yet are one, 
Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright 

fire -r^uenched and gone ! 



THE DREAMER. 



" There is do such thing as forgetting possible to the mind ; a 
thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our 
present con^-ciousness and the secret inscription on the mind ; 
but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for- 
ever." English Opium Eatek. 
« Thou hast been called, O Sleep I the friend of woe ; 
But 'tis the happy who have called thee so." Southkt. 



Peace to thy dreams ! thou art slumbering 

now — 
The moonlight s calm is upon thy brow ; 
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast 
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest — 
Like the scent of a -flower in its folded bell. 
When eve through the woodlands hath sighed 

farewell. 

Peace ! The sad memories that through the day 
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay. 
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead. 
That bowed thee as winds bow the willow's 

head, 
The yearnings for faces and voices gone — 
All %ie forgotten ! Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten ? It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 
Tremblest thou, dreamer ? O love and grief ! 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up 
leaf I 

Oik thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 
Af on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 



On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, 
There's a large tear gathering heavily — 
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed : 
Sorrowful dreamer ! this is not rest ! 

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours — 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. 
— O, we bear within us mysterious thmgs ! 
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs 
And Passion — those gulfs of the heart to fill 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 
Well might we look on our souls in fear — 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 
How know we if under the Avings of death ? 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 

" O that I had wings like a dove I for then would I fly away, an< 
be at rest" — Psalm Iv. 

O FOR thy wings, thou dove ' 
Now sailing by with sunshine on th}- breast ; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest shadows, holiest bird ? 

In what rich leafy glooms. 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred ? 

Over what blessed home, 
What roof with dark, deep summer foliagi 
crowned, 

O, fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of n\Tnph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine, 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude .'' 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blessed, ever blessed, whate'er its aim, thou art 

Unto the greenwood spray. 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off", or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove 



1 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. H" 


0, to some cool recess 


And there the day's last crimson 


Take, take me with tjieo on the summer wind, 


Gives no sad memories birth, 


Leaving the wearmess 


No thought of dead or distant friend*, 


Ajid all the fever of this lil'e behind : 


Or partings — as on earth. 


The aching and the void 


Yet fearfully and mournfully 


Withm the heart, whereunto none reply, 


Thou bidd'st that earth farewell. 


The young bright hopes destroyed — 


Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 


Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky ! 


In a brighter land to dwell. 


Wild wish, and longing vain, 


A land where all is deathless — 


And brief >ipspringing to be glad and free ! 


The sunny wave's repose. 


Go to thy woodland reign : 


The wood with its rich melodies, 


My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 


The summer and its rose ; 


For even by all the fears 


A land that sees no parting, 


And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, 


That hears no sound of sighs, 


unknown, 


That waits thee with immortal air — 


And burning woman's tears. 


Lift, lift those anxious eyes I 


Pour'd from mine eyes in silence and alone 






0, how like thee, thou trembler I 


Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 


Man's spirit fondly clings 


High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar. 


With timid love, to this, its world 


Soon the strong cords of love 


Of old famihar things ! 


Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet 




once more. 


We pant, we thirst for fountains 




That gush not here below ! 


. ♦ 


On, on we toil, allured by dreams 




Of the living water's flow : 


PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE 




ISLAND OF PLEASURE. » 


We pine for kindred natures 




To mingle with our owti ; 


* houvent Tame, fortifiee par la contemplation des choses di- 


For «ommunings more full and high 


rines, voudroit deployer ses ailea vers le ciel. EUe croit qu'au 


Than aught by mortal known : 


terme de sa carriere un rideau va se lever pour lui decouvrir des 


icenes de lumiere : mais quand la mort touche son corps perissa- 




ble, elle jette un regard en arriere vers les plaisirs terrestres et 


We strive with brief aspirings 


rem ses compagnes mortelles." 


_ 


ScHLEOEL, translated by IVIadame de Stael. 


Against our bonds in vain ; 




Yet summoned to be free at last. 


Fearfully and mournfully 


We shrink — and clasp our chain ; 


Thou bidd'st the eartfc farewell ; 




And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 


And fearfully and mournfully 


In a brighter land to dwell. 


We bid the earth farewell. 




Though passing from its mists, like thee^ 


Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 


In a brighter world to dwell. 


The sunshine of that shore 




Around thee, as a glorious robe, 




Shall stream forevermore. 




The breezy music wandering 


THE BOON OF MEMORY 


There through the Elysian sky 




Hath no deep tbne that seems to float 


" Many things answered me."— Manfred 


From a happier time gone by. 


I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade 




From the green spots wherein my 'fcildhood 


» Writiftn for a picture in wnich Psyche, on her flight up- 


played. 


♦vards, is represented looking back sadly and anxiously Xo 


»)« earth. i 


By my own streams ? 



44S 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Must my life part from each familiar place, 

4ls a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes r 
W"ill the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
rhe welcomes there, the hours when we have 
met 

In grief or glee ? 
^1 the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
rhe kindly words of trust, in days gone by. 

Poured fujL and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give, 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

Forevermore ! 
Bid the -v^ind speak of me where I have dwelt. 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

£n th« rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well. 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell. 

Set deep that thought ; 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow, 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, 

With me be fraught ! 

And Memory answered me : "Wild wish, and 

vain ! 
1 have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
Soon with new shadows filled, new flowers o'er- 
grown. 
Is theirs no more." 

Hast tJiou such power, O Love ? And Love re- 
plied : 
"It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's fuU tide 

Of hope and trust, 
Prayer, tear, devote dness, that boon to gain — 
'Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust ! " 

Song, is the gift with thee ? I ask a lay, 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

Prom the still breast ; 
Filled with a tone — O, not for deathless fame, 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 



i Br'^owylfa is prcujunced as written Bronwylva ; and 
wrhaps ttie nearest English approach to the pronunciation 
Df Rhyllon would be by supposing it to be spelt Ruthin, the 
« sounded as in but. 



DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN BRON- 
WYLFA AND RHYLLON. 

Bronwylfa,^ after standing for some time in 
silent contem'plation of Rhyllon, breaks out intc 
thefolloxcing vehement strain of vituperation. 

You ugliest of fabrics ! you horrible eyesore ! 
I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor ! 
In the face of the sun, without covering oi 

rag on. 
You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon. 
With your great green-eyed windows, in bold- 
ness a host, 
(The only green things which, indeed, you can 

boast,) 
With your forehead as high, and as bare as the 

pate 
Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate,' 
You lift yourself up, o'er the country afar, 
As w^ho would say, " Look at me ! — here stands 

great R ! " 
I plant — I rear forest trees — shrubs great and 

smaU, 
To wrap myseK up in — you peer through \;hem 

all! 
With your lean scraggy neck o'er my poplars 

you rise ; 
You watch all my guests with your wide saucer 

eyes. 

(7w a paroxysm of rage.^j 
You monster ! I would I could waken some 

morning. 
And find you had taken French leave without 

warning ; 
You should never be sought like Aladdia's 

famed palace. 
You spoil my sweet temper — you make me 

bear malice : 
For it is a hard fate, I will say it and S'lng, 
Which has fixed me to gaze on so frightful a 

thing. 
Rhyllon — (with dignified equanimity.^ 
Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all thii 

rage ? 
This sudden attack on my quiet old age ? 
I am no parvenic : you and I, my good brother, 
Have stood here this century facing each other; 
And / can remember the days that are gone. 
When your sides were no better arrayed than 

my own. 

2 Bronwylfa is here supposed to allude to tne pate ai 
iKscliylus, upon which an eagle dropped a tortoise to atek 
the shell. 



KECORDS OF WOMAN. 



»49 



Nay, the truth shall be told — since you flout 

me, restore 
The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my 

door ! 
Since my baldness is mocked, and I'm forced to 

explain, 
"•riiy give me my large laurustinus again. 

( With a tone of prophetic solemnity.') 
Bronwylfa ' Bronwylfa ! thus insolent grown, 
Your pride and your poplars alike must come 

down ! 
I look througl the future, (and far I can see, 
^B St. Asaph rd Denbigh will answer for 

me,) 



And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou naat 
done. 

From my kind heart's brick bottom, I pity theo. 
Br on ! 

The end of thy toiling and planting will be, 

That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me. 

Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out 
for the light, 

** I suppose it is morning, for E,hyllon iookt 
bright ; " 

While I — my green eyes with their tears over- 
flow. 

( Tenderly. 

Come ! — let us be friends, as we were long i^ o. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE, 

miM VWlUMa, JLI A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATEFUL RESPECT AND ADMIRATION, IS AFFECTI0NATBL1 

INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. 



" Mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
Of magic, potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distressed, 
And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast." 
' Das ist sas Loos des Schonen auf der erde." 



Wordsworth. 
Schiller. 



ARABELLA STUART. 

1"Thb Ladt Arabella," as she has been frequently 
entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of 
Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth 
as well as James I. This affinity to the tJ^rone proved the 
misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly 
excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent 
her marrying, shut her out frCm the enjoyment of that do- 
mestic happiness wliich her heart appears to have so fer- 
vently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with 
William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the 
cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately 
placed in separate confinement. From tliis they found 
means to concert a romantic plan of escape ; and having 
won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was 
disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent 
sickness and suflTering, stole out in the night, and at last 
reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were 
in waiting. She embarked ; and at break of day a French 
vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. 
As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was de- 
sirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him ; but this 
wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to 
her entreaties, hoisted sail, " which," says D'Israeli, " oc- 
67 



casioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. 
Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he readied 
the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with 9 
boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed j the waves 
were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance ha 
descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, 
he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the 
French ship charged with his Arabella: in despair and con- 
fusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a 
large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." 
Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to lin- 
ger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her 
husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in tlie 
king's service, and broujfht back to a captivity, under the 
suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. 
"What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot per- 
haps be recovered for authentic history, but enouf^h is 
known — that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost 
her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was 
short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some ef 
fusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, 
incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers. "- 
D'Israkli's Curiosities of Literature. 
The following poem, meant as some record of her fa.*o, 
i and the imagined fluctuations of her thought'' and feeiingi* 



150 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



is supposed to commence dnniig the time of her first impris- 
onment, wliilst lier mind was yet buoyed up by the con- 
sciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope 
of eventual deliverance.] 

" And is not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb?" Byeon. 
" Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto." Pixdemonte. 



'TwAS but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 
Under the boughs where early birds were 

singing ; 
I stood o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook. 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and 

spear, 
Like a rich mask swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all passed by 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! A soft wind blew the clustering 

hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst 

I^tri 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train. 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away. 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array. 
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted 
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power. 
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless 

hearted. 
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that 

hour 
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, be- 
neath 
Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breath 
ti hidden forest flowers. 



'Tis past ! I wake, 
A captive, and alone, anl far from thee, 
ftffy love and friend ! Yet, fostering, for thy 
sake, 
A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman spirit strong. 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above. 
By its undying fervor, and prevail — 
S*»nding a breath, as of the spring's first gale. 



Through hearts now cold ; and, raising its brigfc 

face, 
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase 
The characters of anguish. In this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust. 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 



And thou too art hi bonds ! Yet droop thou not, 
O my beloved ! there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head. 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light 
When darkness, from the vainly- doting sight 
Covers its beautiful ! * If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow - 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of eai.iest tenderness, which now, even now 
Seems floating througn my soul, were music 

taken 
Forever from this world — O, thus forsaken 
Could I bear o^ ? Thou livest, thou livest, 

thou'rt mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrme, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall 

burn, 
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return. 



And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to 
thee. 
O for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss. 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiM ? 
Yet shall Ifear that lot — the perfect rest. 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, 
After long suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace afl'ection's woes. 



t " Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you do. 
it sufficcth me you are mine. Rachel wept and would not bt 
comforted, because her children were no more. And that, in- 
deed, is tlie remediless sorrow, and none else!" — From* 
letter (if Aral)ella Stuart's to her husband. — See Curio^iiia 
of Liter atuTC 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



B.insct ! I tell each moment. From the skies 

The last rc^d splendor floats along my wall, 

Like a king's banner ! Now it melts, it dies ! 

I see one star — I liear — 'twas not the call, 

Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbbed 

too soon. 
I mu«t keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Bhcwer down less golden light. Beneath her 

beam 
Ihtough my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love. 
Under the vine or in the citron grove, 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep. 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. Hark ! a bell's slow 

chime ! 
Riy heart strikes with it. Yet again — 'tis time ! 
A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come to meet thee on the 



Now nevermore, O, never in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — nevermore ! The hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed 
That spoke sweet oracles ; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow tossed ; 
Yet were they severed, even as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain — in vain ! 
rhe dark links meet, and clasp themselves again. 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood, 
Anc. & white sail came gliding o'er the flood. 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : it drew 

near. 
Fraught with our foes ! What boots it to re- 
call 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison wall 
Bhuts the green hills and woodlands from my 

sight. 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour ! — thee ! 

I will not sink ! 
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that 
bcu-d th^e ! 



And this shall be my strength — the joy to thinV 
That thou mayst wander with heaven's breatl, 

around thee, 
And all the laughing sky ! This Ishought shall 

yet 
Shine o'er ml heart a radiant amulet. 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds ar» 

broken ; 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 



My friend ! my friend ! where art thou ? Day 

by day, 
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away. 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the 

while, 
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; summer with her smile 
Fills the green forest ; young hearts breatlie 

their vows ; 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; hope laughs from loving 

eyes : 
All this is in the world ! — these joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path ! On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the Strieker 

deer 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 



Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers 
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon 

sent ; 
O'er you the oak shed down the summei 

showers. 
And the lark's nest was where your bright 

cups bent. 
Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath 

been. 
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts 3 the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill. My soul growe 

faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreanu 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream — the green, 

the free, 
The full of all sweet sound — the shut from me 1 



There went a swift bird singing past my cell — 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are level/ things 



*0i 



RECOllDS OF WOMAN. 



With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 
And by the streams. But I — the blood of 
kings, 
A proud unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings ! - I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant ; and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crushed ! O, heaven is far — 
Eprth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 
There are such tales of holy marvels done 
By strong aifection, of deliverance won 
Through its prevailing power ! Are these things 

told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt ; and thou ! O 

thou ! 
Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? — 
Thou canst not ! Through the silent night, 

even now, 
I, th&t need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend ! 
How sh^ll I bear this anguish to the end ? 

Aid ! — oomes there yet no aid ? The voice of 

blood 
Passes heaven's gate, even ere the crimson flood 
Sinks through the greensward ! Is there not 

a cry 
From the \%Tung heart, of power, through agony, 
To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! — hear me ! 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 
Have hea\T,er cause ! Yet hear ! — my soul 

grows dark ! 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown, 
Its freight of human hearts ? The o'ermaster- 

ing wave ! 
Who shall tell how it rushed — and none to save ! 

rho'i hast fore. ak en me ! I feel, I know, 
There would he rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt wher<» the red wine free and high is 

poured, 
rhou'rt where the dancers meet ! A magic 

glass 
Ls set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ! 
see t le shadow, stateliest there of all — 



Thine ! What dost thou amidst the bright aiiC 

fair, 
Whispenng light words, and mocking my de. 

spair ? 
It is not well of thee ! !My love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought ex 

plore 5 
And there thou smilcst, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying : 
Even thou, on whom they hung their last greea 

leaf 

Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou foi 

grief! 

Death ! ^\Tiat ! is death a locked and treasured 

thing. 
Guarded by swords of fire ? * a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure. 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 
Wherefore not spread free wings Heavsi, 

Heaven ! control 
These thoughts ! — they rush — I look into my 

soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at the array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength tc 

pray ! 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilbd. 
Father in heaven ! thou, only thou, canst 

sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish 

filled, 
For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if thy child. 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath groAATi 

wild. 
And sinned in her despair ! It well may be 
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world 

poured — 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigli. 
A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
The o'erwearied dust from home : nc breeze 

flits by. 
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blen* 
Of many mysteries. 



1 " And if you remember of old, / ojre du. Consida 
what the world would conceive if I should be violently en 
forced to do it." — Fran-meitts of her Letters. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



i(h 



Hark ! the -warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death ! Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless. 
Even in this hour's o'ershado^^'ing fearfulncss, 
Thee, its first love ! O, tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name. 
Though but a moment ! 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head. 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much 5 too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth : but now take 

back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, ?.nd find th^u happiness ! Yet send 
Even then, in sDont hours, a thought, dear 

friend ! 
Do-wr to my voireless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Though bought With burning tears ! It is the 

stmg 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world \ What were it then, if thou. 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell ! The passion of long years I pour 
Into that word ! Thou hearest not — but the 

woe 
And fervor of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place : there let them dwell. 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell ! 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.' 

* Fear I I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dreaa my freedom ? 



I will not live degraded." 



Sardanapalus. 



CuME frrm the woods with the citron flowers. 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 

1 Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series 
»f the Curiogities of Literature, and fot.ning part of a picture 
■k the " Pa nted Biography " there described. 



Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and thi 

breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas j 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crowned 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flashed out from her braided hair. 
Like starry dews 'midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone. 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zor e 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue. 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks 

through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high. 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She looked on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 

She turned — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her cliildhood's faded track. 

O, hush the song, and let her teai's 

Flow to tne dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's 

hall; 
She goes unto love yet untried and new. 
She parts from love which hath still been 

true : 
!Mute be the song and the choral strain, 
Till her heart's deep wellspring is clear again I 
She wept on her mother's faithful breast* 
Like a babe that sobs itself to re»t ; 
She wept — yet laid her hand a "Wnile 
In his that waited her dawning smile — 
Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 
For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 
She lifted her graceful head at last — 
The choking swell of her heart was past ; 
And her lovely thoughts from their cells focaa 

way 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.' 

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. 

Why do I weep ? To leave the vine 
Whose clusters o'er me bend; 



' 2 A Greek bride, on leaving her father's house, taik,« 
leave of her friends anJ relatives frequently in extempora- 
neous verses. — See F.jurikl's C/iants Pop-uiaita ds It 
Orice Modernt 



t6« 



KECORBS OF WOMAIn. 



The myrtle — yet, O call it mine ! — 

The liowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear 

Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

O. therefore let m.e weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! We have played 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes ! thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child. 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
'Vhose eye o'er all my voutli hath smiled — 
leav^j the s ! k *; me A^eep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! On thy breast 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain ! 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again ? — 

Sweet mother I let me weep ! 

And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart — as a mountain spring 
That works its way, through the torrent's foam. 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 
It is well ! — The cloud on her soul that lay 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Weke again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so : 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng ; 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 
Ye may catch through the foliage their white 

robes' gleam, 
LiVe a swan 'midst the reeds of a shadowy 

stream ; 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Lr over the deep- veined violet's bed ; 



They have light leaves around them, blue skiei 

above. 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 



Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian v ootl, 
With the soft green light o'er its low rot f spreA-ij 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime leaves that mingled oa 

high. 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed, 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, w^hose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river ; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crowned. 
Vine stalks its lattice and walls had bound ; 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride, 
And the guests were met by that fountain 

side. 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face — 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace. 
With lips of love, and a brow serene. 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood scene. 
Bring wine, bring odors ! — the board is spread 
Bring roses ! a chaplet lor every head ! 
The wine cups foamed, and the rose was show- 
ered 
On the young and fair from the world embow 

ered ; 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! Was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore ? 
Silence I — did thick raindrops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet ? 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the s-word I 
The groves are filled with a pirate horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ! — 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang , 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were flashing poniards and darkeninii 
bro\^ 8 — 



HECORDS OF WOMAN. 



461 



footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled, 

And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! — 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With tiia blood from his breast in a gushing 

flow, 
Like a child's large tears in its hour of avo&, 
A.nd a gathering film in his lifted eye, 
That sought his young 1 ride out mournfully. 
She knelt down beside him — her arms she 

wound, 
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 
As if the passion of that fond grasp 
Might chain in life with its ivy clasp. 
But they tore her thence in her wild despair. 
The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there : 
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein. 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain. 
And a hush of fear through the summer grove. — 
So closed the triiunph of youth and love ! 



Gloomy lay the shore that night. 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bathed each purple Sciote hill — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal woe, 
In its changes wild or low, 
Through the midnight's blue repose, 
From the sea-beat rocks arose, 
As Eudora' s mother stood 
Gazing o'er th' -^Egean flood. 
With a fixed and straining eye — 
O, was the spoilers' vessel nigh ? 
Yes ! there, becalmed in silent sleep. 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep. 
On a sea of molten silver, dark 
Brooding it frowned, that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast. 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast ; 
A.I \ the heavy sound of its flapping sail 
Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 
Hushed was all else — had ocean's breast 
Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ? The waves tremble ! — what piercing 

cry 
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ? 
What light through the heavens, in a sudden 

spire, 
Shoots from the 'Jeck up ? Fire ! 'tis fire ! 



There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal gun, and call. 
And the dashing of water — but fruitless all ! 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame, 
The might and Avrath of the rusliing flame ! 
It hath twined the mast, like a glittering snake 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 
It hath touched the sails, and their canvas rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in the air, 
And reddened the stars with its wavy glare ] 
And sent out bright arrows, and soared in glee, 
To a burning mount 'midst the moonlight sea. 
The swimmers are plunging from stern and 

prow — 
Eudora ! Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 
The slave and his master alike are gone. - 
Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 
The child of thy bosom ! — and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 
Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare ; 
And her fragile form to its loftiest height 
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might ; 

And her eye with an eagle gladness fraught 

O, could this work be of woman wrought ? 
Yes ! 'twas her deed ! — by that haughty smile, 
It was hers : she hath kindled her funeral pile ! 
Never might shame on that bright head be : 
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made hei 

free ! 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught hei 

ear. 
As the flames to her marriage robe draw near. 
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 
To the form they must never infold again. 
— One moment more,and her hands are clasped — 
Fallen is the torch they had wildly g'rasped — 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bowed, 
And her last look raised through the smoke' 

dim shroud. 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love I 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of thi 
field of Grutii, had been alarmed by the envy with whicl 
the Austrian bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appear 
ance of wealth and comfort which distinRuished his <JweIfr 
ing. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties o 



i06 



KECORDS OF WOMAiN. 



bis wife, a woman who seems to have been of an heroic spir- 
t, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon 
Jie measures by wliich Switzerland was finally delivered.] 

" Nor look nor tone revealeth aught 
Save ■woman's quietness of thought; 
And yet around her is a liglit 

Of inward majesty and might." M. J. J. 

"Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen druckt 
Der kaun fur herd und hof mit fieuden fechten." 

WiLLHELM Tell. 

&r was the 'time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or 
hiU, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow stUl, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touch' d with the crimson of the dying hour. 

Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam. 
And pierced its lattice tlirough the vine-hung 
bower ; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 

Then first looked mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree 

That sent its lulling whispers through his 
door. 
Even as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no 
more 
Th' accustomed j oy in all which evening brings, 
Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hushed before him — sad, yet 
mild 
In her beseeching mien ! — he marked it not. 
The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot. 
But seemed unheard ; until at last the boy 
Haised from his heaped-up flowers a glance of 

Joy. 

And mtrt his father's face. But then a change 

Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 
And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the 
knee 
60 often climbed, and lift his loving eyes 
That shone through clouds of sorrowful sur- 
prise. 

rhen the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 
"But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 



Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 
Through tears half quivering, o'er him beat 

and said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy hearl 

its prey — 
That thou shouldst turn thee from c-j: Jbve 

away ? 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 
Mark' St thou the wonder on thy boy's fair 
brow. 
Missing the smile from thine ? O, -.heer thee ! 
bend 
To his soft arms : unseal thy thoughts e'en 
now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosen' d from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand 

" Speak low ! " he cried, and pointed where on 
high 

The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hUls 
And their free torrents ; for the days are 
come 

When tyranny lies couched by forest rills, 
And meets the shepherd in his mountain home 

Go, pour the mne of our own grapes in fear — 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been 
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 

Under my household tree, if not serene, 
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight : 

To-morrow eve may find me chained, and thee — 

How can I bear the boy's yoxMig smiles to see ?' 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's 
cheek : 

Back on the linden stem she leaned her form , 
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harp string shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness passed, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had 
moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet 
smile 
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness tl" e while, 



KECOllDS OF WOMAN. 



4,-5. 



Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour — 
Her clear g'.ance kindling into sudden power. 

A.y, pale she stood, but with an eye of li;^ht, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

A.nd lifted her soft voice, that gathered might 
As it found language — "Are Me thus op- 
pressed ? 

rhen must we rise upon our mountain sod, 

Ajid man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

•*I know what thou wouldst do; — and be it 

done ! 
Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! This, thy 

son, 
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be 

free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on 

earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o.'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head. 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all but seeing iliee subdued — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

»» Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets 

glOAV. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! Away ! 
Bless but thy child, and leave me — I can pray ! " 

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking 
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air ; 

He caught her to his heart, while proud tears 
breaking 
From his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair ; 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

* That man for thee should gird himself to die ! 

" My bride, my ^afe, the mother of my child I 
Now shall thy name be armor to my lieart ; 

And this cur land, by chains no more defiled. 
Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 

I go — thy spirit on my M^ords shall dwell : 

thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Fare- 
well ! " 

A.nd thus they | urted, by the quiet lake, 
In the clear str "light : he the strength to rouse 
£8 



Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake. 
To rock her child beneath the whispering 
boughs. 
Singing its blue half- curtained eyes to sleep 
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



PKOPERZIA ROSSI. 

[Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculjtor of Bologna 
possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in consw 
quence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Du 
cis, represents her showing heo- last work, a basso ri eve 
of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her afft>ction 
who regards it with indifference.] 

" TcU me no more, no more 
Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and fulled to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, al*)me for all 
Its burden of affections 'i I depart, 
UnknowTi, though fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that deatK 
Shall give my name a power to win such team 
As would have made lite precious." 



One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pou_ 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. Yet one morf 

dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this fare^vell triuixiph be 
Thou, loved so vainly ! I w^ould leave enshrineo 
Something immortal of my heart and mind. 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection — something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavished ; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song that gushed when none werp 

near. 
And dream by night, and -weary thought b? 

day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away- 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me difi i 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness — my spirit, wake t 

Even for thy sorrowful affection's sake, 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — that he maf 

yet, 
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regie* 
Thine unrequited gift. 



ii3 



RECORDS OP woma:n. 



It comes, the poAver 
Within me born flows back — my fruitless 

dower 
riiat could not w^in me loA'e. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : they throng — they pres9 
A. sudden joy lights up my loneliness — 
I s";.all not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose. 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty — line by line, 
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows ! 

— and now 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine : 

I give my own life's history to thy brow. 
Forsaken Ariadne ! — thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but O, more fair, 
Touched into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight. 
When I am passed away. Thou art the mould. 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea. 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye — 
Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully. 
Of all my love and grief ! O, could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice — a sweet, and low, 
And ttirillmg voice of song ! when he came 

nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to 

bear 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath — to rise, to 

swell, 
To sink away in accents of farewell, 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 
If love be strong as death ! 



Now fair thou art, 
Thou form» TTTiose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee. O, I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought ; 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ! A heart whereon to lean, 
With all tlese deep affections that o'erflow 
My aching «oul, and find no shore below ; 



An eye to be my star ; a voice to bring 

Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe oi 

spring ; 
These are denied me — dreamt of still m \ ain 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, Co die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world wiU see 
Little of this, my parting work ! in thee. 

Thou shalt have fame ! O mockery ! gi^e 
the reed 
From storms a shelter — give the drooping vine 
Something round w^hich its tendrils may in- 
twine — 
Give the parched flower a raindrop, and the 
meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthlesfe 

fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for m}' name 
Th' abiding-place it asked ! Yet how mj 

heart. 
In its own fairy w^orld of song and art, 
Once beat for praise ! Are those high longing* 

o'er? 
That which I have been can I be no more ? 
Never ! O, nevermore ! though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings 

fill 
Thine air with soul, be w^andering past me stiU; 
And though the mantle of thy suiihght streams 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet dreams. 
Never ! 0, nevermore ! Where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know 
Whose life is all within, too soon and well. 
When there the blight hath settled ! But I go 

Under the silent wings of peace tc dwei* , 

From the slow wasting, from the lonely pmin, 

The inward burning of those words — " in vatVi," 

Seared on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be 

past ! 

Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven. 

And thou, O thou, on whom my spirit cast 

Unvalued wealth — who know'st not what wai 

given 
In that dcvotedness — the sad, and deep, 
And imrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart fourth ere I siiik to rest ! 
But that were happiness ! — and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame- Yet I was formed to be 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. %ji 


So richly blessed! With thee to watch the 


" And bid me not depart," she cried ; 


sky, 


" My Rudolph, say not so ! 


Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert 


This is no time to quit thy side — 


nigh ; 


Peace ! peace I I cannot go. 


With thee to listen, -while the tones of song 


Hath the world aught for me to fear, 


Swept even as part of our sweet air along — 


When death is on thy brow ? 


To listen sileiitly ; with thee to gaze 


The world ! what means it ? Mim ia here 


On forms, the deified of olden days — 


J will not leave thee now. 


This had been ioy enough ; and hour by hour, 




From its g'ad wellsprings drinking life and 


" I have been with thee in thine ho\ir 


power, 


Of glory and of bliss ; 


B.0W had my spirit soared, and made its 


Doubt not its memory's living power 


fame 


To strengthen me through this ! 


A glory for thy >>row ! Dreams, dreams ! — The 


And thou, mine honored love and true, 


fire 


Bear on, bear nobly on ! 


Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 


We have the blessed heaven in view. 


A.S a deep thriQ may linger on the lyre 


Whose rest shall soon be won." 


When its full chords are hushed -— a while to 




live. 


And were not these high words to flow 


And one day hap y m thy heart revive 


From woman's breaking heart ? 


Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound, 


Through all tha< night of bitterest woe 


A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound ; 


She bore her /ofty part ; 


I leave it on my wjun try's air to dwell — 


But 0, with such a glazing eye, 


Say proudly yet — *'' Twos hers who loved me 


With such a curdling cheek ■ 


well ! " 


Love, Love ! of mortal agony 




Thou, only thout shouldst speak ! 




The wind rose high — but with it rose 


GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELriT TILL 


H^r voice that he might hear : — 


DEATH. 


Perchance that dark hour brought r« 


[The B^ron Von der Wart, accused — though it is be- 
lieved unjustly — as an accomplice in the assassination of 


pose 
To happy bosoms nsar ; 


Hie Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and at- 


While she sat striving with despair 


tended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing 


Beside his tortured form, 


nours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own suffer- 
ings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affect- 
ingly described in a letter which she afterwards J^ddressed 


And pouring her deep soul in prayer 
Forth on the rushing storm. 


to a female friend, and which was published some years 




ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von de Wart} 


She wiped the death damps from hii 


n. Fidelity unto Death. 


brow 


" Dark lowers our fate, 


With her pale hands and soft. 


And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 


Whose touch upon the lute chords low 


But nothing, till that latest agony 

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 

This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison house, 


Had stilled his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 


In the terrific face of armed law, 

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 

I never will forsake thee." Joanna Baillib. 


She bathed his lips with dew. 
And on his cheek such kisses pressed 




As hope and joy ne'er knew. 


Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes 




raised. 


0, lovely are ye. Love and Faith, 


The breeze threw back her hair ; 


Enduring to the last ! 


Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 


She had her meed — one smile in death— 


All that she loved was there. 


And his worn spirit passed ! 


The night was round her clear and oo d, 


While even as o'er a martyr's grave 


The holy heaven above. 


She knelt on that sad spot. 


[ts pale stars watching to behold 


And, weeping-, blessed the God who gave 


The might of earthly love. 


St*-ength to forsake it not. 



160 



kecukijS of woman. 



BIELDA 

" Sometimes 
The yoTing forgot the les«ons they had learnt, 
And loved when they should hate — Uke thee, Imelda 1 " 1 

Italy ; a Poem. 
' Fassa la bella Donna, e par che derma." — Tasso. 



We have the myrtle's breath around us here, 

Amidst the fallen pillars : this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
tip through the shadowy grass the fountain 
wells, 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar ! That sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death ; 
Yet once the wave was darkened, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops — but not of rain — 
On the dim violets by its marble bed, 
And the pale shining M'ater-lily's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. — A fair girl met 
One whom she loved, by this lone temple's 

spring. 
Just as the sun behind the pine grove set, 
And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to 

bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle 

pair, 
With the blue heaven of Italy above, 
And citron odors dying on the air. 
And light leaves trembling round, and early 

love 
Deep in each breast. What recked their souls 

of strife 
Between their fathers ? Unto them young 

Hfe 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world brings forth. They stood, 

that hour, 
Speaking of hope ; while tree, and fount, and 

flower, 
And star, just gleaming through the cypress 

boughs, 
H«emcd holy things, as records of their vows. 

bul change came o'er the scene. A hurrying 
tread 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 



1 Tho tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire des 
Xipubliques Itzlimnes, vol. iii. p, 4CJ, 



Dim with green twilight : pausing there, shi 

caught — 
Was it the clash of swords ? A swift, dark 

thought 
Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it 

passed, 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shrx)k 
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy t ast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once 

more, 
She still'd her heart to listen — all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song — 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng 
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light, 
And her cheek glowed with beauty's flushing 

dyes, 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies — 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose 

gaze 
Followed her from beneath the clear lamp's 

blaze, 
And marvelled at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue 
With something of dim fear ; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance. 

Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest, 
Comes not unmasked. Howe'er this were, the 

time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft ; 
When trembling stars looked silvery in their 

wane. 
And heavy flowers yet slumbered, once again 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, 
Through the dim cedar shade — the step of one 
That started at a leaf, of one that fled, 
Of one that panted with some secret dread. 
What did Imelda there ? She cought the seen* 
Where love so late with youth and hope had 

been. 
Bodings were on her soul ; a shuddering thrill 
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's 

rill 
Met her with melody — sweet sounds and low ' 
IVe hear them yet, they live along its flow — 
I Her voice is music lost ! The fountain side 

She gained — the wave flasl ed forth — 'twai 
i darkly dyed 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



4A 



Even as from warrior hearts ; and on its edge, 
Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss tufts 

deep, 
I'here lay, as lulled by stream and rustling sedge, 
A youth, a graceful youth. '« O, dost thou 

sleep ? 
Azzo ! " she cried, ** my Azzo ! is this rest ? " 
But then her low tones faltered — '* On thy 

breast 
Is the stain — yes, 'tis b^od ! And that cold 

cheek — 
That moveless lip ! — thou dost not slumber ? — 

speak, 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! No sound — no 

breath — 
"What hath come thus between our spirits ? 

Death ! 
Death r — I but dream — I dream ! " And there 

she stood, 
A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustained by that dark stem alone. 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimmed eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sw^ord lay shivered by the 

stream — 
Her brother's sword ! — she knew it ; and she 

knew 
Twas with a venomed point that weapon 

slew ! 
Woe for young love ! But love is strong. 

There came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame ; 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knek, with all her dark hair floating round 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and pressed 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast, 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad 

sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! 
— So the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 

Through the green forests of the Apennines, 

With all her joyous birds their free flight Aving- 

ing, 

And steps and voices out amongst the vines. 

What found that dayspi'ng here? Two fair 

forms laid 
Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 
Btill, mournful, sweet. W^ve such things for 
*■' e grave ? 



Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl. 
Decked as for bridal hours ! — long braids o 

pearl 

Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shinijig 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light 

And there was gold her slender waist intwinii-g . 

And her pale graceful arms — how saillj 

bright ; 
And fiery gems upon her breast were Ij'ing, 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. 
But she died first ! — the violet's hue had sprea-^ 
O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppressed ; 
She had bowed heavily her gentle hesd. 
And on the youth's hushed bosom sunk to rest 
So slejDt they well ! — the poison's work wa^ 

done ; 
Love with true heart had striven — but Death 

had won. 



EDITH.» 

A TALE OP THE WOODS. 

"Du Heilige 1 mfe dein Kind zunick I 
Ich habe genossen das irdische Gluck, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet," Wallen stein. 

The woods — O, solemn are the boundless 
woods 

Of the great western world when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods. 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines. 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air. 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood* 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, 

there sate 
One young and fair ; and O, how desolate ! 
But undismayed — while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darkened with the night. 
Alone she sate ; though many lay around, 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, 
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe, 

Far as death severs life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the va'iant low 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 
Unto the forest oaks — a fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
'Midst the fair halls of England ! But the lov« 

Which filled her soul was strong to cast out 
fear ; 



1 Founded on incidents related in an American wora 
Sketches of Connecticut." 



152 



IlECORDS OF WOMAN. 



A.nd by its might upborne all else above, 

She shrank not — marked not that the dead 
■were near. 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

"While heavily she felt his lifeblood well 
Past o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming 

wound — 
Yet hoped, still hoped <. O, from such hope how 
long 
Affection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong ! 
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er 
believe 
The blow indeed caa fall. So loved she there 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
FiUed all her soul. Now poured the moonlight 

down, 
Veining the pine stems through the foliage 

brown. 
And fireflies, kindling up the leafy place. 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face. 
Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, 
The eye that faded looked through gathering 
haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, 

Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze. 
When voice was not ; that fond, sad meaning 

passed — 
She knew the fulness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard — and mute she 

lay 
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and 
Death ! 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful 
earth. 
Many and sad ! — but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your 
birth 
Is for apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
rhpji the moon sheds, came flushing mist and 

dew; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 

played ; 
Bright-colored birds with splendor crossed the 

shade, 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs 

broke 
From reed, ard spray, and leaf — the living 

strings 



Of earth's ^^olian lyrr, whose mtisic woke 
Into young life and joy all happy thmgs. 
And she, too, woke from that long dreairless 

tranf,e, 
The widowed Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange. 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flashed o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts thai 

slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled. 
Then faintly sank again. The forest bough. 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now 
Where was she ? 'Midst the people of the wild 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief, 
Whose home looked sad — for therein played nc 
child — 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 
Won by a foi-m so desolately fair. 
Or touched with thoughts from some past sor- 
row sprung. 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung ; 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 
And leaning on his bow. 

And life returned — 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead. 
To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferei 

learned 
Her task of meek endurance — well she wore 
The chastened grief that humbly can adore 
'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair. 
Even as breath of spring's awakening air. 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild time 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too 

soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had senn 

A daughter to the land of spirits go ; 
And ever from that time her fading mien. 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted, their dim years : but Edith's facf 
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place. 
And they again seemed parents. O, the joy, 
The rich deep blessedness, though earth's alloy, 
Fear, that still bodes, be there — ( f pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth ai-t" 

worth 
Of strong aff'ection, in one healtliful flow. 
On sometliing all its own ! that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain. 
Gives the glad soul its floAvering time again. 



KECOKDS OF WOMAX. 



When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle 

cares 
The adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus.' Her spirit dwelt the while 
With t.ie departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; yet still she prayed, 
E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
riad been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
WTiich warned her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Linked unto moments when the heart was 

stirred — 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn. 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and 

dim — 
By the persuision of her fervent eye, 
All elocjuent -v\'ith childlike piety — 
By the still beauty of her life she strove 
To Win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Poured out on her so freely. Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in p;entle bonds ; by slow degrees 
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade. 
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was 

made 
Even such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 

spread 
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touched into golden bronze the cypress bough, 
\nd when the quiet of the Sabbath time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
Now might she pass in hope — her work was 

done ! 
And she tna^ passing from the woods away — 
Tlip broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye Avas bright 
Even yet with something of a starry light ; 
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
it rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 
A.nd the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
ts crimson leaves in many a shower had strewn, 
Flushing the air , and winter's blast had been 
Vn"'di»< the pines , and now a softer green 



[ Fringed their dark boughs : for spring agau 
' had come, 

I The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
j Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 
To part with life when all the earth looks glau 
In her young lovely things — when voices brcali 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossom- 

wake ; 
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changofuj 

time. 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ? 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day. 
And sounds and odors, with the breezes' play 
A\Tiispering of spring time, through the cabin 

door. 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore- 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
"My father!" — to the gray-haired chief si p 

spoke — 
"Know'st thou that I depart?" "I know, ^ 

know," 
He answered mournfully, •' that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter ! " •• Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother ! " with meek smile:- 

once more 
She murmured in low tones : " one happy lot 

Awaits us, friends ! upon the better shore 
For we have prayed together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine owu. 
Under the cedar shade ; where he is gone. 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learned — the Sa- 
vior's prayer 
Which now ye know — and I shall meet yovj 

there. 
Father and gentle mother ! ye have botmd 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eyt 
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply. 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep 
Solemnly beautiful — a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in woe, 
♦' Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warriu 

old. 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters ri-lleri 

"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side 
And the hunter's hearth away : 

For the time of flowers, for the summer's priuf 
Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 



IS4 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



" Thou'rt journej-ing to thy spirit's home, 
"Wliere the skies are ever clear ; 

Che corn month's golden hours -will come, 
But they shall not find thee here. 

♦* And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

" A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill. 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

*• But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 
Where farewell sounds are o'er : 

Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 
No fear of parting more. 

" The mossy grave thy tears have wet. 
And the wind's wild moanings by. 

Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 
'Midst flowers — not such as die. 

" The shadow from thy brow shall melt 

The sorrow from thy strain. 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

** Dim will our cabin be, and lone. 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

" And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land ! " 

The song had ceased, the list'ners caught no 

breath : 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY.' 

' What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart lilccds longest, and but heals to wear 
That which disfigures it." Childe Hakold. 



BoTAL in splendor went do-wm the day 
On the plain where an Indian city lay, 

* Prom a tale in Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 



With its crown of domes o'er the forest high., 

Red, as if fused in the burning sky ; 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays whicj 

made 
A bright stream's way through each long arcadt. 
Till the pillared vaults of the banian stood 
Like torchlit aisles 'midst the solemn wood; 
And the plantain glittered with leaves of gold. 
As a tree midst the genii gardens old. 
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire, 
And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of firo. 
Many a white pagoda's gleam 
Slept lovely round upon lake and stream. 
Broken alone by the lotus flowers. 
As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours 
Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 
Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 
Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 
With the water vase from the palmy shade. 
Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 
Down marble steps, to the tanks below ; 
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard. 
As the molten glass of the wave was stirred, 
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air. 
Told where the Bramin bowed in prayer. 
— There wander' d a noble Moslem boy 
Through the scene of beauty in breathlesi 

joy; 
He gazed where the stately city rose, 
Like a pageant of clouds, in its red repose , 
He turned where birds through the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume; 
He tracked the brink of the shining lake, 
By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake 
TUl the path he chose, in its mazes, Avound 
To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky xirn, from the sun and wind. 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west, 
Spread out like a metal mirror's breast ; 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep. 
Seemed made for the swimmer's joyous leap. 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase. 
For all free things of the wildwood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky 
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye , 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave 
Dashing the spraydrops, cold and Avhite, 
O'er the glossy leaves in its young delight. 



REUOKDS OF WOMAN 



iiiS 



And bowing his locks to the waters clear — 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

Tis mother looked from her tent the while 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stayed the march of her pilgrim train, 

('almly to linger a few brief liours 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers : 

For rlie pomp of the forest, the wave's bright 

fall, 
The red gold of sunset — she loved them all. 



The moon rose clear in the splendor given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven 3 
The boy from the high- arched woods came 

I nek - - 
O, what had he met in his lonely track ? 
The serpent's glance, through the long reeds 

bright ? 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 
No ! yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soiled and torn, 
And a gloom on the lids of his darkened eye. 
And a gash on his bosom — he came to die ! 
He looked for the face to his young heart sweet, 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 
" Speak to ire ! whence doth the swift blood 

run ? 
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son ? " 
The mist of death on his brow lay pale. 
But his voice just lingered to breathe the ale. 
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn. 
And Avounds from the children of Brahma b-^nae. 
This was the doom for a Moslem found 
With a foot profane on their holy ground — 
This was for sullying the pure waves, free 
Unto them alone — 'twas their god's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look — 

Tlie mother shrieked not then nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Kending her mantle to stanch its flood ; 

But it rushed like a river which none may stay, 

Bearin;^ a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain, 

Fearfully striving with heaven in vain — 

That w^hich fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasj)ed to our bosoms, its mortal mould. 

Was fleetmg before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment — the soul from the face had 

passed ! 
Are there no words for that common Avoe r 
A.sk of the thousands its depth that know ! 



The boy had breathed, in his dretming rest. 
Like a low-voiced dove, on. her gentle breast ; 
He had stood, when she sorrowed, beside hei 

knee. 
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee } 
He had kissed from her cheek the widow's tears, 
With the loving lip of his infant years ; 
He had smiled o'er her path like a bright sprir fl 

day — 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 
Murdered ! Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell I 

She bowed dowoi mutely o'er her dead — 
They that stood round hor watched in dread ; 
They watched — she knew not they were by — 
Her soul sat veiled in its agony. 
On the silent lip she pressed no kiss — 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this ; 
She shed no tear, as her face bent low 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow ; 
She looked but into the half-shut eye 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And, shrieking, mantled her head from sight. 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might. 

And what deep change, what work of power. 

Was wrought on her secret soul that hoi'" "* 

How rose the lonely one ? She rose 

Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 

And proudly flung from her face the veil, 

And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 

And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood-^ 

Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high, 

With a close and rigid grasp she pressed 

The blood-stained robe to her heaving bre««t 

And said — *' Not yet, not yet I weep, 

Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep ! 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent. 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turned. 
The strength of her step was the heart tha' 

burned ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, 
As the mother passed with her slaughtered 

child. 



Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Through the woods round the Indian city borne 



166 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



A. peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 
War ! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war ! 
The Bramin looked from the leaguered towers — 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the lake that flashed through the plantain 

shade, 
Aa the light of the lances along it played ; 
And the canes that shook as if winds were 

high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
O, deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had passed, 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from her pale lips poured. 
Each one a spell to unsheathe the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 
And the dark chief of Araby grasped his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doomed its fall. 
Back with the dust of her son she came, 
When her voice had kindled that lightning 

flame } 
She came in the might of a queenly foe. 
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow ; 
But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 
TJiere sought the warrior his star of fate : 
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign, 
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught 
As a sibyl's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! — the gift of grief 
Thdt lights up vengeance to find relief. 
Transient and faithless ! It cannot fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
Tt.'hat haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turned from her sad renown. 
As a king in death might reject his crown. 
Slowdy the strength of the walls gave way — 
She withered faster from day to day : 
All the proud sounds of that bannered plain, 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; 
f^ike an eagle caged, it had striken, and worn 
The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born, 



Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride. 
As on that eve when the fair boy died : 
She gazed from her couch, and a softness feU 
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewfeli 
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone. 
Had an echo of feelings that long seemed flo-.vn 
She murmured a low sweet cradle song. 
Strange 'midst the din of a warrior throng — 
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 
Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek. 
But something which breathed from that mourn- 
ful strain 
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again ; 
And starting, as if from a dream, she cried — 
" Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm boughs 

wave. 
When the temples are fallen, make there oui 

grave." 
And the temples fell, though the spirit passed. 
That staid not for victory's voice at last 3 
When the day was won for the inartjT: dead, 
For the broken heart and the bright blood shed. 

Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar 

steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed 5 
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes. 
And the streams glowed red, as from warriot 

veins ; 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 
Like the panther leaped on its flying prey, 
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left. 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair, 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung — 
This was the work of one deep heart WTUng I 



THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONK 

" There is but one place in the world 

Thither, where he lies buried I 



There, there is all that still remains of him : 
That single epot is the whole earth to me." 

COLF.KIDGE'l 

' Alas I our young affections run to waste. 
Or water but the desert." — Cm lde UAr.OLD 



Theke went a warrior's funeral through the 

night, 
A. waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfulh- and wildly thrown 
From the high woods, along the sweeping 

Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread 
En muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 
AlS chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell 
CM" the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Birne wHh the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver, 
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet 

pale, 
Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; — but of 

one, 
0, who shff.ll speak ? "vVTiat words his brow un- 
veil? 
A father following to the grave his son ! — 
That is no grief to- picture ! Sad and slov/, 
Through the wood shadows, moved the 

knightly train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low — 
Fair even when found amidst the bloody 

slain, 
Stretched by its broken lance. They reached 

the lone 
Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 
Btately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, 
A. strange deep echo shuddered through the 

pile, 
rill crested heads at last in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given : — and Aymer 

slept 
Beneath the drooping banners of his line. 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had 

swept 
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine. 
Bo the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave ; 
And the pale image of a youth arrayed 
As warrio-'s are lor fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. Then all was done. 
All still around the dead. His name was heard 
perchance when wine cups flowed, and hearts 

were stirred 
By some old s:)ng, or tale of oattle won 
Fold round the hearth. But in his father's 

breast 
Manhood's higi passions woke again, and 

pressed 



On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds hac 

ceased 
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing 

tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark ^ide 
Alas ! to think of this ! — the heart's void plac< 
Filled up so soon ! — so like a summer cloud, 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace ! - 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? — not of all ! The sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip ere while, 
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade with- 
drew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness 

lying 
Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep. 
And all the music with that young voice dying, 
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heari 

leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, 
On Aymer' s tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, 
Through the dim fane soft summer odors 

breathing. 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance gloA\'ing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet 

there 
Might speak of love — a secret love and 

lowly ; 
And the rose image all things fleet ana fair ; 
And the faint passion flower, the sad and 

holy. 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As fpr an altar, wove the radiant band ? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells. 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and swdet 

bells. 
To blush through every season ? Blight and 

chill 
Might touch the changing woods ; but duly still 
For years those gorgeous coronals renewed. 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, 
Even through midwinter, filled the solitude 
With a strange smile — a glow of summer t 

realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pounng 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring' 
In lone devotedness ' 



iG8 



RECORDS OF WOMAN, 



One spring morn rose, 
^nd found within that tomb's proud shadow 

laid — 
0, not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose 
From the fierce noon — a dark-haired peasant 

maid. 
Who could reveal her story ? That still face 
Had once been fair ; for on the clear arched 

brow 
And the curved lip there lingered yet such grace 
As sculpture gives its dreams ; and long and 

low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half- shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimmed, the slight form all wasted, as by 

care. 
Whence came that early blight ! Her kindred's 

place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! She grasped a 

wreath, 
ilie tomb's last garland! — This was love in 

death. 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG. 

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's 
desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her 
children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cata- 
ract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mourn- 
ful death song, until overpowered by the sound of the wa- 
ters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's 
" Expedition to the Source of St. Peter's River."] 

"Non,je ne puis vivre avec un cceur brise. n faut que je re- 
Irouve lajoie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de I'air." 

"Bride of McBsina." Translated by INIadame de Stael. 

" Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman." 

" The Prairie." 

Down a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the fail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within, 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone. 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood ! Upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She pressed her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart. 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose a while 
Above the so<und of waters high and clear. 
Wafting a wild proud strain — a song of death. 



" Roll swiftly to the spirit's land, thou rnightj 

stream and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, roll ! and bear oui 

lives with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have tossed would 

seek the sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to 

the woods of balm. 

'* Roll on ! — my warrior's eye hath looked upon 
another's face, 

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 

moonbeam's trace : I 

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whis- 
per to his dream — 

He flings away the broken reed. Roll swiftei 
yet, thou stream ! 

" The voice that spoke of other days is hushed 

within his breast, 
But mi?ie its lonely music haunts, and will not 

let me rest ; 
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness 

that is gone — 
I cannot live without that light. Father of 

weaves ! roll on ! 

" Will he not miss the bounding step that met 
him from the chase ? 

The heart of love that made his home an ever- 
sunny place ? 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and 
decked his couch of yore ? — 

He will not ! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to 
the better shore ! 

«' Some blessed fowit amidst the woods of that 
bright land must flow, 

Whose waters from my soul may lave the mem- 
ory of this woe ; 

Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 
breath may waft away 

The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of 
the day. 

" And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, 

for woman's weary lot. 
Smile ! — to that wasting of the heart, my own ! 

I leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching 

love away — 
Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn ! fron? 

sorrow and decay. 

1 " Father of waters," the Indian name for th« M'fjiifl 

si|)l>i. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



4Gi 



* She bears thee to the glorious bowers where 

none are heard to weep, 
A.nd where th' unkind one hath no power again 

to trouble sleep ; 
And "where the soul shall find its youth, as 

wakening from a dream : 
One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, 

dark- rolling: stream ! " 



JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS. 

[•'Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons quel- 
ques amis de son enfance. Una joie plus ineffable encore 
I'attendait k Rlieims, au sein de son trioniplie: Jacques 
d'Arc, son pere, y se trouva, aussitot que de troupes de 
Ohailes VII. y furent entries ; et comme les deux freres de 
notre heroine I'avaient accompagnee, elle se vit pour un in- 
•tant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un pere ver- 
tueax." — Fie de Jeanne d^jlrc] 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame I 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-bom frame 

Above mortality : 
Away I to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring I 

Ihat was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
WTien peal on peal of mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while 

around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound. 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ? Within, the light. 
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 

flowing, 
ringed with soft awfulness a stately sight — 
The chivalry of France their proud heads 

bowing 
In martial vassalage ! "While 'midst that ring. 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the 

hymn 
Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grow dim. 
As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproached, beside the altax stone, 
With the white banner forth like sunshine 

streaming. 
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming, 
Bilent and radiant stood ? The helm was raised. 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed, 
intensely worshipping — a still, clear face, 



Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's chech 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 
Yet glorified, with inspiration's trace 
On its j^ure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seemed bending o'er her votaress. That sligh 

form ! 
Was that the leader through the battle storm ' 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye 
Guided the warrior where the swords flashed 

high ? 
'Twas so, even so ! — and thou, the shepherd'i 

chHd, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour. 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power, 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land, 
And, beautiful with joy and witi renown, 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown. 
Ransomed for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet notes be shaken. 
And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken, 

And come thou forth, that heaven's rejoicing 

sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue 

skies, 
Dau-ghter of victory ! A triumphant strain 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies. 
Gushed through the portals of the antique 

fane. 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound : 
O, what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward mth the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? — far deeper dweUa 
In one kind household voice, to reach the 

cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! The shouts that 

filled 
The hollow heaven tempestuously were stilled 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone. 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. '• Joanne ! " 

— Who spoke 

Like those whose childhood with her child- 
hood grew 
Under one roof? "Joanne!" — t^at murmm 
broke 
With sounds of weeping forth ) She turned 

— she knew 

Reside her, marked from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 



170 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flashed proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest bom, that ever loved her best : — 
"Father! and ye, my brothers ! " On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank — and swiftly back, 
Even in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp 

no more. 
The plumes, the banners : to her cabin door. 
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,' 
Where her young sisters by her side had played, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turned. The very wood note, sung 

In early spring time by the bird which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech leaves 
hung. 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt, 
Winning her back to nature. She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head, 
And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the 
ground. 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said — 
" Bless me, my father ! bless me ! and M'ith thee. 
To the still cabin and the beechen tree, 
Let me return ! " 

O, never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! Too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price — 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home, with all its loves — doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 

To die for what we love I O, there is power 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this : 
It is to live without the vanished light 
That strength is needed. 
" Cos! trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde." Tasso. 

/Wlono the starlit scene went music swelling. 
Till the air thrilled with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dAvelling 
For cares or stricken hearts were found on 
earth ; 

.\.nd a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

1 A •)eaufifiil fountain, near Doinrenii, believeo to be 
iiaiintfi . liy fairie.s, and a favorite resort of Jeanne u'Arc in 
ier cliildhuud. 



For in a palace of the land that lught 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves wet* 
hung ; 

And from the painted walls a stream of light 
On flying forms beneath soft splendor flung ; 

But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 

Was one — the lady from the Danube side.' 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! though now no mori 
Her clear eye flashed with youth's all-tamelesi 
glee, 
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, 

There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 
A charm with graver, tenderer sweetnesi 

fraught — 
The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky 

Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair, 
As her young daughter in the dance went by 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast ? 

Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 
Such oh awake when most the heart seems 
blest 
'Midst the light laughter of festivity. 
Whence come those tones .'' Alas ! enough W6 

know 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil when young feet were fl>ing 

In fairy rings around the echoing hall ? 
Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sigh- 
ing. 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call.^ 
Silence ! — the minstrels pause — and hark ! a 

sound, 
A strange quick rustling which their notes had 
drowned ! 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaking — 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had 
shed! 
From the gay dream of revelry awaking. 

One moment holds tliem still in breathlesi 
dread. 
The wild fierce lustre grows : then bursts a cry — 
Fire ! through the hall and round it gathering 
-fly! 

2 The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story ol 
her fate is beautifully related in L'Jillcma^ne, vo.. iii 
p. 331). 



K£.':OKDS OF WOMAX, 



47 



4nd forth they rush, as chased by swoid and 
spear, 
To the green coverts of the garden bowfts — 
4 gorgeous mask of pageantry and fear. 
Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers : 
WTiile from the dome behind, red spai-kles driven 
Fierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

Ajod where is she — Pauline ? The hurrying 
throng' 

Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 
Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 

Tilx now the threshold of that death is past, 
And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 
Tailing her child — but no sweet voice replies. 

*' Bertha ! where art thou ? Speak ! O, speak, 
my own ! " 
Alas ! unconscious of her pangs the while, 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, 

Powerless had sunk w^ithin the blazing pile ; 
A young bright form, decked gloriously for death, 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

I3ut O, thy strength, deep love ! There is no 
power 

To stay the mother from that rolling grave. 
Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 

And forth like banners from each lattice wave ; 
Back, back she rushes through ahost combined — 
Mighty is a'iguish, with aff"ection twined ! 

And what bold step may follow, 'midst the 
roar 
Of th*^ red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? 
None ! — Courage there stood still — and never- 
more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes ! 
Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild fare- 
well ? 
^ jid died they heart to heart ? — O, who can tell ? 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 

On that sad palace, 'midst its pleasure shades ; 
Its painted roofs had sunk — yet black with 
smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 
But yestereve their shafts with wreaths were 

bound, 
N"ow lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around ! 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 
Of aU that woman's heart had dared and done ? 



Yes ! there were gems to mar* its mortal place; 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone • 
Those had the mother, on her gentle breast. 
Worn round her child's fair image, there at res\ 

And they were all ! — the tender and the true 

Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 
Hallowing the spot where mirth once -ightl7 
flew, 
To deep, lone chastened thoughts of grief and 
love. 
O, we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries of such woe i 



JUANA. 

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the 
death of her husband, Philip the Handsome, of Austria, who 
had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid 
upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress ; and being pos- 
sessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a 
length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of r» 
turning life.] 

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love. 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave' 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart. 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 

The night wind shook the tapestry round an 
ancient palace room. 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through 
the gorgeous gloom. 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitfu] 
gleams and red, 

"Where a woman with long raven hair sat watch- 
ing by the dead. 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorioui 

still to see, 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free : 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but thert 

majestic lay. 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's airay 

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the 

cold slumber er's side, 
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in hei 

garb no pride ; 
Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that claj 

she bent, 
A wildncss and a tenderness in strange respien 

dence blent. 



472 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



A.nd as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, 
A.midst the silent room of death the dreamer 

spoke aloud ; 
She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake, 
Ajid learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 

one ! for thy sake. 

'< They told me this was death, but well I knew 

it could not be ; 
Fnirest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke 

of death for thee f 
They would have wrapped the funeral shroud 

thy gallant form around, 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crowned ! 

' With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their 

coronal beneath. 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said 

that this was death ? 
SUence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness 

round thee long. 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all un- 

dimmed and strong. 

•* I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee. 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round 
a light of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine — a cold un- 
smiling cheek — 

0, I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 



" But w^hen thou wak'st, my prince, my lord ! 

and hear'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed 

and wept — 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have passed — 
Surely that humble patient love mitst win back 

love at last ! 

'' And thou wilt smile — my own, my own, shall 

be the sunny smile, 
Whiah brightly fell, and joyously, on all hut me 

ere while ! 
N^o more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine — 
'>, years of hope deferred were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 



" Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look whei 

thou comest from the chase — 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'ei 

thy face ! 
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give 

me loveliness. 

•' But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet 

once more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music 

of thy voice. 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone. 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes,, may all 

be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured 
forth day by day, 

The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 
soul found way, 

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o\»l 
every grace, 

Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the prince- 
ly form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon tht 
watcher's breast, 

And they bore away the royal dead with re- 
quiems to his rest. 

With banners and with knightly plumes all 
waving in the wind — 

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 
despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 
Woman 1 — a power to suffer and to love ; 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke — 
" Sing us a death song, for thine hour is come " — 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fau'-hair'd youth of England^ 
stood. 
Like a king's son ; though from his cheek had 
flown 

The mantling crimson of the island blood. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



And his pressed lips looked niiirble. Fiercely 

bright 
And high around him blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : but who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, 
Kncwn but to Heaven that hour ? Perchance a 

thought 
'3f his far home then so intensely wrought, 
ThU its full image, pictured to his eye 
Or the dark ground of mortal agony. 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnums drooped ; or haply binding 
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth, 
Where sat their mother ; and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! Perchance the prayer 
Learned at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good night " might breathe from boy- 
hood gone ! 
- He started, and looked up : thick cypress 

boughs, 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, dark- 
ly red 
In the broad stormy fii-elight ; savage brows. 
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 
spread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dun- 
geon bars. 
Shedding no hope. He knew, he lelt his doom — 
O, what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England. Idle fear ! 
Would the %\inds tell it ? Who might dream or 

hear 
The secret of the forests ? To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young sol- 
dier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake. 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! — the fondly reared — the fair. 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! And fettered there 
He stood beside his death pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. Hush ! hark i aery 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity — 
A step hath pierced the ring ! "Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood r 
A girl — a you3ig t- light girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green savanna? and the leafy wild, 
BO 



Springmg unmarked till then, as some lor' 

flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, 
For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervor 8W»y«d| 
Even to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Lilve close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye. 
And clear-toned voice, that said, " He shall not 

die ! " 
" He shall not die ! " — the gloomy forest thrilled 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 

stilled. 
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed ; their dark souls bowed before tht» 

maid, 
She of the dancing step in Avood und glade ! 
And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue. 
As her black tresses to the night wind flew, 
Something o'ermastered them from that youno 

mien — 
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive'i 

breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death y 
They q^uenched the brand beneath the cypress 

tree : 
'♦ Away," they cried, " young stranger, thou art 

free ! " 



COSTANZA. 

Art thou then desolate 't 
Of friends, of hopes forsaken ? Come to me t 
I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved falw ? 
Flatterers deceived thee ? Wanderer, come to me ! 
Why didst thou ever leave me 'I Know'st thou all 
I would have borne, and called it joy to bear. 
For thy sake ? Know'st thou that thy voice hath poira? 
To shake me with a thrill of happiness 
By one kind tone '/—to fill mine eyes witli tears 
Of yearning love ? And thou — O, thon didst throw 
That crushed aft'ection back upon my heart? 
Yet come to me I — it died not. 

She knelt in prayer, A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stained window of her lonely c«U 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, 
?^'ushing her cheek and pale Mad'^nna brow. 



i7i 



REuvyr.DS OF WOMAIN. 



While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright wares of gold — the autumn forest' r: 

hue — 
Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervor lived ! And yet what woe, 
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 
The glassy tide ! O, he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chastened heart to feel, 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years. 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to Heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known 
Than that she fled the w.orld's cold breath, and 

made 
A temple at the pine and chestnut shade, 
FiUing its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and 

dim. 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds 

in dreams — 
Music for weary hearts ! 'Midst leaves and 

flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed 
Came and brought hope ! while scarce of mor- 
tal birth 
He deemed the pale fair form that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long, a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling 
well; 
And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone. 
Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there 
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood. 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set. 
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met 
The floating son^-. Strange sounds ! — the 

trumpet's peal, 
M.ade hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel ; 
The rallying war cry. In the mountain pass 
There had been combat ; blood was on the grass. 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 
A.nd the pine branches crashed before the flying. 



I And all was changed within the still retreat, 
I Costanza's home : there entered hurrying feet, 
; Dark looks of shame and sorrow — mail-clad men 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle glen, 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch ra)t 

bore 
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging swcrd, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him : then foi 

flight, 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night. 
Sped breathlessly again. They passed ; but he, 
The stateliest of a host — alas ! to see 
What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep, 
Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep, 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden 

crest 
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his 

breast — 
Some costly love gift — rent : but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven locks — the 

breeze. 
As it came in tlirough lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them ; steeped in bloody 

showers. 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark 

ray, 
Where w^as it ? And the lips ! — they gasped 

apart, 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! But that white hue — 
Was it not death's ? — that stillness — that cold 

dew 
On the scarred forehead ? No ! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, 
The haughty chief of thousands — tne forsaken 
Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day — 
Such hours are woman's birthright — she, un- 
known. 
Kept w^atch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourned the strong 

man's raving. 
He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled 

form 
Still hovering nigh ! yet, sometimes, when thai 

storm 
Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing. 
Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently 

bringing 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



47£ 



Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebbed from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 
Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams ; 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmured forth, " Where am I ? What soft 

strain 
Passed like a breeze across my burning brain ? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one — 
Where is she now ? and where the gauds of pride. 
Whose hollow splendor lured me from her side ? 
All lost ! — and this is death ! — I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ; 
Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
My first, my holiest love ! — her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpardoned I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale. 
And stood before him with a smile — O, ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear — 
And said, " Cesario ! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust, 
As should be Heaven's alone — and Heaven is 

just ! 
I bless thee — be at peace ! " 

But o'er his frame 
Too fast the strong tide rushed — the sudden 

shame, 
rhe joy, th' amaze ! He bowled his head — it fell 
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there — 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE. 

*rho should it be ? Where shouldst thou look for kindness ? 

When we are sick, where can we turn for succor? 

When we are wretched, where can we complain ? 

And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 

Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 

WVi such sure confidence as to a mother ? " Joanna Baillie. 

'• My child, my child, thou leaves L ne ! I shall 

hear 
The gentle voice no more that blessed mine ear 
VVith its first utterance : I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around. 



And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight'* a.o*^ 
And thy ' Good night ' at parting for repoee. 
Under the vuie leaves I shall sit alone. 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 
My child ! and thou, along the moonlight sea, 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of 

France, 
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go 1 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's wo« 
From thy young heart be far ! And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. Now, farewell ! farew^ell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never teL 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wert pillow^ed there, and wont tc 

raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : these moments are gone 

by- 
Thou too must go, my flower ! Yet with thee 

dwell 
The peace of God ? One, one more gaze : fare- 
well ! " 

This was a mother's parting with her child — 
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, 
And wooed her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home : yet there, with fond 

delay, 
She lingered on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellised rose leaves 

float. 
And fell upon her mother's neck and -wept. 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slep^ 
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day. 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breaiit heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long 
Poured forth her own sweet, solemn vesper song, 
Breathing of home,. Through stillness heard 

afar. 
And duly rising with the first pale star, 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
The sounding ocean solitudes wers passed. 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful 

world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 



ire 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



With, their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with 
tears ! 
rhat home was darkened soon : the summer 

breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the 

seas : 
Death unto one, and anguish — how forlorn ! 
To her that, widowed in her marriage morn. 
Sat in her voiceless dwelliiig, whence with him, 
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side 
By the clope veil of misery. O, but ill, 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young 

high heart 
Bears its first blow ! It knows not yet the 
part 
Which life will teach — to suffer and be still, 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future 

hours 
To send no busy dream ! She had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned 
In weariness from life. Then came th' unrest. 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast. 
The haunting sounds of voices far away, 
And household steps : until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams 
In her own sunny land ; and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was 

fraught. 
To strangers .-* O, could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised ? Did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half- unconscious flow ? 
Something was there that, throvigh the linger- 
ing night, 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light — 
Something that faints not through the day's dis- 
tress, 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness — 
Love, true and perfect love ! Whence came 

that power, 
Uprearlng through the storm the drooping 

flower? 
Whence .■' — who can ask ? The wild delirium 



And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
[nto her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery 
hue. 



The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had «A' 

come. 
Thus in life's evening from her distant home, 
To save her child ? Even so — nor yet in vain 
In that young heart a light sprang up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seemed this fair world, though faded ; still to liv« 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother ! gentlest mother ! can it be ' " 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee.-' 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore : 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines on<yj 

more." 



THE QUEEN OP PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 

[" This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, neai 
Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, 
among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and 
should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds ; 
but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the 
dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, 
and the outline f^*" the human form was plainly visible be- 
neath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it 
back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait 
statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance — not aa 
in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Noth- 
ing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her 
features. The hands are folded on the bosom ; the limbs 
are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the 
king brings her children annually, to offer garlands at hei 
grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above thia 
living image of their departed mother." — Sherer's JNTofei 
and ReJlectio7is during a Ramble in Oermany, ] 

" In sweet pride upon that insult keen 
She smiled ; then drooping mute and brokei hearted, 
To the cold comfort of the grave departed." MiLXJia. 

It stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep 

From cypress branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread. 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead 

And what within is richly shrined •' 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely, in perfect rest reclir.ed, ' 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, tne ca^m pure facei, 

The mantle's quiet flow, 
The gentle yet majestic grace 

Throned on the matron htorv 



KECORDS OF WOMAN, 



47S 



These, in that scene of tender gloom, 
Witn a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A. kingly emblem — nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below 
Was royal in her birth and woe. 

There are pale garlands hung above, 

Of dying scent and hue ; 
She was a mother — in her love 

How sorrowfully true ! 
O, hallowed long be every leaf, 
The record of her children's grief ! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

Of olden glory spoiled. 
The standard of their sires borne down, 

The shield s bright blazon soiled : 
She met the tempest, meekly brave, 
Then turned o'erwearied to the grave. 

She slumbered : but it came — it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour, 
With the glad shout, and signal flame 

Sent on fi ^m tower to tower ! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved — 
'Twas hprs, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep ; 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial poured 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. ^ 

Ajyi the crowned eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
Ajid the strong land shook off" its chain — 

So was the triurr^ph won ! 
B:it woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's ! — She was gone ! 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 

[On the roadside, between Penrith and Appleby, stands 
t email pillar, with this inscription : " This pillar was 
wected in the year 1()56, by Ann, Countess Dowager of 
Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, 
with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dow- 
ager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616." — See notes to 
the Pleasures of Me-viory. 



MoTHEK and child whose blending "cars 

Have sanctitied the place. 
Where, to the love of many years, 

Was given one last embrace — 
O, ye have shrined a spell of power 
Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn thought — 

A still, small undertone. 
That calls back days of childhood, iraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot, 

Who but a mother's love hath known — 
The one love changing not r 

Alas ! and haply learned its worth 

First with the sound of ♦' Earth to earth ' ' 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou. 
O'er whose bright honored head 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow 
E'en here were fondly shed — 

Thou from the passion of thy grief, 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 

For O, though painful be th' excess, 
The might wherewith it swells. 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling dwells ; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pridft. 

Poisoned the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more 
Which thy young heart first knew ? 

And all — was all in this world o'er 
With ties thus close and true ? 

It was ! On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy 

No other voice could pierce the maae 
Where, deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of ottsr days 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, hke the breath of spring 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps, 
While on thy name, 'midst wood and liili 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign, — 



478 EECOIIDS OF WOMAN. 


Can I, while j'et these tokens wear 


Between thee and the golden glow 


The impress of the dead, 


Of this world's vernal dawn. 


Think of the love embodied there 




As of a vision fled ? 


Parted from all the song and bloom 


A perished thing, the joy, and floAver, 


Thou would st have loved so well, 


And glory of one earthly hour ? 


To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 




Was but a broken spell. 


Not so ! — I will not bow. me so 




To thoughts that breathe despair ! 


The bird, the insect on the wing. 


A loftier faith we need below, 


In their bright reckless play. 


Life's farewell words to bear. 


Might feel the flush and life of spring — 


Mother and child ! — your tears are past — 


And thou wert passed away. 


Surely your hearts have met at last. 






But then, e'en then, a nobler thought 




O'er my vain sadness came ; 




Th' immortal spirit woke, and vrrought 




Within my thrilling frame. 


THF, GRAVE OF A POETESS.^ 


Surely on lovelier things, I said. 




Thou must have looked ere now, 


I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; 


Than all that round our pathway shed 


Spring odors breathed around, 


Odors and hues below. 


And music, in the river wave, 




Passed with a lulling sound. 


The shadows of the tomb are here, 




Yet beautiful is earth ! 


All happy things that love the sun 


What seest thou, then, where no dim fear, 


In the bright air glanced by, 


No haunting dream, hath birth ? 


And a glad murmur seemed to run 




Through the soft azure sky. 


Here a vain love to passing flowers 




Thou gavest ; but where thou art 


Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough 


The sway is not with changeful hcurs — 


That fringed the ruins near ; 


There love and death must part. 


Young voices were abroad — but thou 


^ 


Their sweetness couldst not hear. 


Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 




A voice not loud but deep ! 


And mournful grew my heart for thee ! 


The glorious bowers of earth among, 


Thou in whose woman's mind 


How often didst thou weep ? 


The ray that brightens earth and sea, 




The Light of song, was shrined. 


Where couldst thou fix op. mortal ground 




Thy tender thoughts and high ? 


Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low. 


Now peace the woman's heart hath foiind, 


With a dread curtain drawn 


And joy the poet's eve. 


" Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine sce- 


runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that liav« 


»ery of Woclstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having 


been partially converted into a church, reverently throw 


bei^n the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave 


their mantle of tender shadow over it —Tales hy the 0^H» 


1 one of nii»iv in th» churchyard o ' the village. The river 


ra Family 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 471 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 


THE SICILIAN CAPTIVR 


'Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? " Maemion. 


" I have dreamt thou wert 
A captive in thy hopelessness ; afar 
From the oweet home of thy young infancy, 




Whose image unto thee is as a dream 


rsE stately homes of England ! 
How beautiful they stand, 


Of fire and slaughter. I can see thee wasting, 
Sick for thy native air." L. E. L. 


Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 


The champions had come from their Lelds oi 


O'er all the pleasant land ! 


war, 


The deer across their greensward bound. 


Over the crests of the billows far ; 


Through shade and sunny gleam ; 


They had brought back the spoils of a hundrtd 


And the swan glides past them with the 


shores. 


sound 


^^^lere the deep had foamed to their flashing 


Of some rejoicing stream. 


oars. 


The merry homes of England ! 


They sat at their feast round the Norse king's 


Around their hearths, by night, 


board ; 


What gladsome looks of household love 


By the glare of the torchlight the mead was 


Meet in the ruddy light ! 


poured ; 


There woman's voice flows forth in song. 


The hearth was heaped with the pine boughs 


Or childhood's talc is told, 


high, 


Or lips move tunefully along 


And it flung a red radiance on shields thro-v^-r 


Some glorious page of old. 


by. 


The blessed homes of England ! 


The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme 


How softly on their bowers 


Their songs of the sword and the olden time ; 


Is laid the holy quietness 


And a solemn thrill, as the harp chords rung. 


That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 


Had breathed from the waUs where the brigh 


Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 


spears hung. 


Floats through their woods at morn ; 




All other sounds, in that still time, 


But the swell was gone from the quivering 


Of breeze and leaf are born. 


string ; 




They had summoned a softer voice to sing ; 


The cottage homes of England ! 


And a captive girl, at the warriors' call, 


By thousands, on her plains. 


Stood forth in the midst of that frowning 


They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 


hall. 


And round the hamlet fanes. 




Through glowung orchards forth they peep. 


Lonely she stood — in her mournfal eye? 


Each from its nook of leaves ; 


Lay the clear midnight of southern skies , 


And fearless there the lowly sleep. 


And the dooping fringe of their lashes low 


As the bird beneath their eaves. 


Half veiled a depth of unfathomed woe. 


The free, fair homes of Engbmd ! 


Stately she stood — though her fragile frame 


Long, long, in hut and hall. 


Seemed struck with the blight of some inwajf 


May hearts of native proof be reared 


flame. 


To guard each hallowed wall ! 


And her proud paLe brow had a shade of scorn, 


And green forever be the groves. 


Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 


And bright the flowery sod. 




Where first the child's glad spirit loves 


And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze 


Its country and its God ! 


O'er her marble cheek by the pine fire's biaze 



tt9t) 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



No soft hue caught from the south -wind's breath, 
But a token of fever at strife with death. 

She had been torn from her home away, 

With her long locks crowned for her bridal 

day, 
A.nd brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 

They bade her sing of her distant land — 

She held its lyre with a trembling hand, 

Till the spirit its blue skies had given her 

woke, 
Ar.d the stream of her voice into music broke. 

Faint was the strain in its first wild flow — 
Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low ; 
But it swelled into deeper power ere long, 
As the breeze that swept o'er her soul grew 
strong. 

* They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny 
land ! of thee ! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn- 
ful-sounding sea ? 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ? In silence 
let me die. 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and 
thy pure, deep sapphire sky : 

How should thy Ijtc give here its wealth of 
buried sweetness forth — 

Its tones of summer's breathings born, to the 
wild winds of the north ? 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once more ! My 

spirit shall awake, 
And through the mists of death shine out, my 

country, for thy sake ! 
That I may make thee known, vdth all the 

beauty and the light. 
And the glory nevermore to bless thy daughter's 

yearning sight ! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy 

bright streams warble by, 
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again — yet once, 

my Sicily ! 

" There are blue heavens — far hence, far hence ! 

but O, their glorious blue ! 
Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth's 

deep hue ! 
It is above my own fair land, and round my 

laughing home. 
And arching o'er my vintage hills, they hang 

their cloudless dome ; 



And making all the waves as gems, that men 

along the shore, 
And steeping happy hearts in joy — that now Ik 

mine no more. 

•• And there are haunts in that green land — O. 

who may dream or tell 
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and 

dell? 
By fountains flinging rainbow spray on dark 

and glossy leaves, 
And bowers wherein the forest dove her nest 

untroubled weaves ; 
The myrtle dwells there, sending round the 

richness of its breath. 
And the violets gleam like amethysts from the 

dewy moss beneath. 

"i^na there are floating sounds that fill the 

skies through night and day — 
Sweet sounds ! the soul to hear them faints in 

dreams of heaven away ; 
They wander through the olive woods, and o'er 

the shining seas — 
They mingle with the orange scents that load 

the sleepy breeze ; 
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there — it 

were a bliss to die, 
As dies a leaf thy groves among, my flowery 

Sicily ! 

** / may not thus depart — farewell ! Yet no, 

my country ! no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave ? I feel it 

must be so ! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains 

and the main, 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and tiuough 

thy woods again. 
Its passion deepens — it prevails ! — I break my 

chain — I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blessed — in thy 

sweet air, my home ! " 

And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre - • 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire — 
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold. 
Loosed from their braids, down her boi*«jm 
rolled. 

For her head sank back on the rugged wall — 

A silence fell o'er the warriors' hall ; 

She had poured out her soul with her song's 

last tone : 
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IVAN THE CZAR. 

[•'Ivan le Terrible, etant dcji devenu vieux, assi6gait 
Novgorod. Les Boyni\)>-,, le voyant affuibli, lui demand^- 
neiit s'il lie voulait pas donner le conimandement de I'as- 
saut i son fils. Sa fiireur fiit si grande i cette proposition, 
■jae rien ne put I'appaiser ; son fils se prosterna i ses pieds ; 
il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux 
Jours apres le malheureux en mourut. Le pere, alors au 
d^sespoir, devint indifferent i la guerre comme au pouvoir, 
9t ne survecut que peu de niois ^ son fils." — Diz Anneea 
i''ExU, par Madamio de Stael.] 

" Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 
Ihn wiederh'vbenl .... 

Trostlose allmacht, 
Die nioht einmal in Graber ihren ann 
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 
Mit Menschenleben nicht veiOessern kann I " 



He sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the waj : 
tie had cast his jewelled sabre. 

That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead — 

His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed 

Through the rich tent made way ; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the lord of nations mutely watched. 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones at last, of woe and fear, 

From his full bosom broke — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 

Burdened with agony. 

«* There is no crimson on thy cheek. 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done — 
For the honor of thy father's namC; 

Loak up, look up, my son ! 
61 

i 



" Well might I know death'a hue F.nd mien • 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle. 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 

•' I will not bear that still cold look — 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lifl brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, Arise ! 

«• Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seemed to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child 

That in mine arms I pressed : 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast Binilw 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I reared thee as an eagle. 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle horse, 

I look upon thee — dead ! 

•' Lay down my warlike banners here. 

Never again to wave. 
And bury my red sword and spear. 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! — I have conquered, 

I ha'^e slain : my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not — 

Thou too art mute, my son ! " 

And thus his wild lament was poured 

Through the dark resounding night, 
And the battle knew no more his sword. 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange vc\ces moaning 

In every wind that sighed ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank- 

Humbly the conqueror died. 



«92 



M] SCELI.AN EOL'S POEMS. 



CAROLAN'S PROPHECY. 

!_*' It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish 
bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a 
planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo. whose fa- 
ther's house he frequented, and where he always met with 
a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endow- 
ments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose 
something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside 
bis harp with a mixture of rage and grief j and addressing 
himself in Irish to her mother, ' Madam,' said he, ' I have 
often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a 
planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, 
but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me ; there 
is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melan- 
choly sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not 
doomed to remain long among us ; nay,' said he empha'n- 
callv, 'she will not survive twelve months,' The event 
rerified the prediction, and the young lady died within the 
period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard." — Per- 
cy Anecdotes.] 

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes ; o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast ; 
Thy tears gush forth too soon ; and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth ; O, therefore, child of song I 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart. 

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, 
Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose. 
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard 
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 
Flashing through rock and wood : the sunset's 

light 
Was on his wavy, silver -gleaming hair. 
And the wind's whisper in the mountain ash. 
Whose clusters drooped above. His head was 

bowed, 
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 
Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood 
Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 
Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song — 
Many and graceful forms : — yet one alone 
Seemed present to his dream ; and she, indeed. 
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, 
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, 
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, 
E en painfull)'' ! — a creature to behold 
With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen 
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 
Too dim without its brightness ! Did such fear 
O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one, 
By Lis own rushing stream ? Once more he 

gazed 
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more 
Prom the deep cl ords his wandedng hand 

brought out 



A few short festive, notes, an opening strain 
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief — 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Met and o'ermastered him ; but yielding then 
To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully. 
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he poured 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang : — 

♦' Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sere leafs trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree 

I hear thee, O thou voice ! 
And I would thy warning were but for me, 

That my spirit might rejoice. 

"But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 
They hear the wind's low sigh, 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily, 

And the woods — but they hear not thee ! 

" Long have I striven 

With my deep-foreboding soul ; 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roU. 
There's a young brow smiling near, 

With a bridal white-rose wreath — 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 

Touched solemnly by death ! 

" Fair art thou, Morna ! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark-blue summer sky ! 
And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill. 
That makes the dim woods tuneful roiud « 

But soon it must be stiU ! 

♦' Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie — 
Make not the strength of love thy trust. 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That my hand for thee hath tried. 
But into dirge notes wild and low 

Its ringing tones have died. 

" Young art thou, Morna f 
Yet on thy gentle head, 



Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart — 
But bright things go with the summer breeze, 

And thou too must depart ! 

«' Yet, shall I weep ? 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep, 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And ths bitterness I know. 

And the chill of this w^orld's breath — 
Go — all undimmed in thy glory, go ! 

Young and crowned bride of death ! 

" Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy thoughts and bright. 
And soaring hopes, that were not given 

For the touch of mortal bUght ! 
Might we follow in thy track, 

This parting should not be ! 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee ! " 

fhere was a burst of tears around the bard : 
All wept but one — and she serenely stood, 
With her clear brow and dark religious eye 
Raised to the first faint star above the hills, 
And cloudless ; though it might be that her 

cheek 
Was paler than before. So Morna heard 
The minstrel's prophecy. 

And spring returned, 
Bringing the earth her lovely things again — 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

»EO»l THE "PORTEAIT OALLEBY," AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

If there be but one spot on thy name, 

One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice 

Whose tones thou shrink'st from — Woman 1 veil thy face, 

And bow thy head — and die I 

Ihgit seest her pictured with her shining hair, 

(Famed were those tresses in Provencal song,) 
Half braided, haK o'er cheek and bosom fair 
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving 
Midst the rich curls ; and O, how meekly loving 
[ts earnest looks are lifted to the face 
Which 'lends to meet '' ',s lip in laughing grace ! 



Yet that bright lady's eye, mcthinks, hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness 
Than might beseem a mother's ; on her brow 

Something too much there sits of native scorn 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow 

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. 
These may be dreams — but how shall wnmar< 

tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears ? St4 

fell ! 
That mother left that child ! — went hurrying b) 
Its cradle — haply not without a sigh. 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung. But no ! it could not thus have been, 
For she went on ! — forsook her home, her hearth, 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, 
To live a gaudy and dishonored thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendors of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life. 

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. 

He recked no more of glory : grief and shame 

Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name 

Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls 

Crept year by year : the minstrel passed theu 

•walls ; 
The warder's horn hung mute. Meantime th*» 

child 
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent 

smiled, 
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 
Into sad youth ; for weU, too well, she knew 
Her mother's tale ! Its memory made the sky 
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye ; 
Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain 
Would there have lingered ; flushed her cheek 

to pain, 
If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone. 
E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own waa 

low 
And plaintive. O, there lie such depths of wo« 
In a young blighted spirit ! Manhood rears 
A haughty brow, and age has done with , ears , 
But youth bows down to misery, in amax-« 
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days : 
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight 

In one so fair — for she indeed was fair ; 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light 
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought aru' 

prayer, 
And with long lashes o'er a white- rose cheek 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek. 
Still that fond child's — and O, the brow above 
So pale and pure ! so formed for holy love 



k84 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



lo gaze upon in silence ! But she felt 

That love was not for her, though hearts would 

melt 
Where er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that called on 

heaven 
Id Dless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn 
With alms before her castle gate she stood, 
Midst peasant groups : when, breathless and 

o'er worn, 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke. The orphan 

maid, 
♦Vith her sweet voice and proffered hand of 

aid. 
Turned to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers — a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood, 
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such 

tears 
As rain the hoarded agonies of years 
From the heart's urn ; and with her white lips 

pressed 
The ground they trod ; then, burying in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out — " O unde- 

filed! 
I am thy mother — sptirn me not, my child ! " 

Isaure had prayed for that lost mother ; wept 
O'er her stained memory, while the happy slept 
In the hushed midnight ; stood with mournful 

gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days. 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weighed her being to the earth with 

shame. 
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise. 
The dark remembrances, the altered guise, 
A while o'erpowered her ? Prom the weeper's 

touch 
Bhe shrank — 'twas but a moment — yet too 

much 
I >r i.at all-humbled one ; its mortal stroke 
Cume down like lightning, and her full heart 

broke 
At once in silence. Heavily and prone 
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone, 
Those long fair tresses — they still brightly Avore 
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no 

more — 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roUed, 
\.nd swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 



Her child bent o'er her — called her : 'twas to* 

late — 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate • 
The joy of courts, the star of night and bard — 
How didst thou fall, O bright-haired Ermen* 

garde ! 



THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. 

" O good old man I how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world I 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times." 

As You LiKK iTi 

Fallen was the house of Giafar ; and its name, 
The high romantic name of Barmecide, 
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, 
By the swift Tigris' wave. Stern Haroun'i 

wrath. 
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 
Had so passed sentence : but man's chainless 

heart 
Hides that within its depths which never yet 
Th' oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun. 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales 
Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still 

one voice 
Was there — the fountain's ; through those East 

em courts, 
Over the broken marble and the grass, 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! An aged man, 
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate 
On a white column's fragment ; and drew fortL, 
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill, 
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 
He told that sad yet stately solitude, 
Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloon*, 
Like waters in the waste ; and calling up. 
By song or high recital of their deeds. 
Bright solemn shadows of its vanished race 
To people their own halls : with these alone, 
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughu 
Held still unbroken converse. He had been 
Reared in this lordly dwelling, and was now 
The ivy of its ruins, unto which 
His foding life seemed bound. Day rolled on daj 
And from that scene the loneliness was fled ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



484 



For crowds around the gray-haired chronicler 
Met as men meet v/ithin whose anxious hearts 
Fear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a 

breeze 
Wanders through forest branches, and is met 
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, 
The spirit of his passionate lament, 
A.S through their stricken souls it passed, awoke 
On 3 echoing murmur. But this might not 

be 
Under a despot's rule, and, summoned thence, 
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 
And with his white lips rigidly compressed ; 
Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak 
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine 

forth. 
Was it to sue for grace ? His burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, 
And he was changed! — and thus, in rapid 

words, 
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than 

death, found way : — 

•* And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble 
and the brave, 

With the glory on their brows, are gone before 
me to the grave ? 

What is there left to look on now, what bright- 
ness in the land ? 

I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their 
princely band ! 

"My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes 

that in your halls was nursed — 
That followed you to many a fight, where flashed 

your sabres first — 
That bore your children in his arms, your name 

upon his heart : 
0, must the music of that name with him from 

earth depart ? 

'• It shall not be ! A thousand tongues, though 
human voice were still, 

With that high sound the living air triumphantly 
shall fill; 

rhe wind's free flight shall bear it on as wan- 
dering seeds are sown, 

And tne starry midnight whisper it with a deep 
and thrilling tone. 

" For it is not as a flower whose scent with the 

dropping ^eaves expires ; 
iLnl it is not as a household lamp, that a breath 

should quench its fires ; 



It is written on our battle fields with the writing 

of the sword, 
It hath left upon our desert sands a light in bless 

ings poured. 

'• The founts, the many-gushing founts whic/i t« 

the wild ye gave. 
Of you, my chiefs ! shall sing aloud, as they pom 

a joyous wave ; 
And the groves, with whose deep lovely glooiB. 

ye hung the pilgrim's way. 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves youi 

praises on the day. 

♦* The very walls your bounty reared for the 

stranger's homeless head 
Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my 

glorious dead ! 
Though the grass be where ye feasted once, 

where lute and cittern rung, 
And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst 

its young. 

'* It is enough ! Mine eye no more of joy or 

splendor sees — 
I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and 

to the breeze ! 
I go, since earth her floM'er hath lost, to join th« 

bright and fair. 
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my 

chiefs ! are there." 

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 
O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a 

thought — 
O, many a sudden and remorseful thought — 
Of his youth's once-loved friends, the martyred 

race, 
O'erflowed his softening heart. *' Live I live ! " 

he cried, 
" Thou faithful unto death ! Live on, and stiU 
Speak of thy lords — they were a princely band ! *• 



THE SPANISH CHAPEL.' 

" Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb. 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eye«, 
Ere ein threw a veil o'er tlie spirit's young bloom, 
Or earth had profaned wliut was bom for the skies.* 

MooxA 

I MADE a mountain brook my guide 
Through a wild Spanish glen, 

1 Suggested by a scene beaui/ully described in the Rcc» 
tections of the Peninsula 



tS6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And -vvaiidcred on its grassy side, 
Far from the homes of men. 

It lured me with a singing tone, 

And many a sunny glance. 
To a green spot of beauty lone, 

A haunt for old romance. 

A dim and deeply-bosomed grove 

Of many an aged tree, 
Such as the shadowy violets love, 

The fawn and forest bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut bough 

There on the waters lay, 
The bright stream reverently below 

Checked its exulting play, 

And bore a music all subdued, 

And led a silvery sheen 
On through the breathing solitude 

Of that rich leafy scene. 

For something viewlessly around 

Of solemn influence dwelt, 
[n the soft gloom and whispery sound, 

Not to be told, but felt ; 

V\''hile, sending forth a quiet gleam 

Across the wood's repose, 
\nd o'er the twilight of the stream, 

A lowly chapel rose. 

A pathway to that still retreat 
Through man y a myrtle wound. 

And there a sight — how strangely sweet ' 
My steps in wonder bound. 

For on a brilliant bed of flowers. 

E'en at the threshold made, 
As if to sleep through sultry hours, 

A young fair child was laid. 

To sleep ? — O, ne'er, on childhood's eye 

And silken lashes pressed. 
Did the warm living slumber lie 

"With such a weight of rest ! 

Yet still a tender crimson glow 
Its cheeks' pure marble dyed — 

'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow 
Through roses heaped beside. 

I stooped — the smooth round arm was chill, 
The soft lips' breatli was fled, 



And the bright ringlets hung so still — 
The lovely child was dead ! 

*' Alas ! " I cried, " fair faded thing ! 

Thou hast wrung bitter tears. 
And thou hast left a woe, to cling 

Hound yearning hearts for years ! " 

But then a voice came sweet and low — 

I turned, and near me sate 
A woman with a mourner's brow, 

Pale, yet not desolate. 

And in her still, clear, matron face, 

All solemnly serene, 
A shadowed image I could trace 

Of that young slumber er's mien. 

*• Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said 
With lips that faintly smiled, 

** As here I watch beside my dead, 
My fair and precious child. 

" But know, the time-worn heart may be 
By pangs in this world riven. 

Keener than theirs who yield, like me. 
An angel thus to heaven ! " 



THE KAISER'S FEAST. 

[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, thf 
Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the 
twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England 
where he died in neglect and poverty. " After his deceasa, 
his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return 
to Germany ; and, by her mediation, during a season of fes- 
tivity when Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, 
the family of his brother presented themselves before him in 
the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To 
this appeal the victor softened." — Miss Benger'a JUemeir 
of the Queen of Bohemia.] 

The Kaiser feasted in his hall — 

The red wine mantled high ; 
Banners were trembling on the wall 

To the peals of minstrelsy : 
And many a gleam and sparkle cam e 

From the armor hung around. 
As it caught the glance of the torch's flame, 

Or the hearth with pine boughs crowned, 

Why fell there silence on the chord 

Beneath the harper's hand ? 
And suddenly from that rich board 

Why rose the wassail band ? 



MISCELI AXEOUS POEMS. 



45J 



The strings were hushed — the knights made 
way 

For the queenly mother's tread, 
As up the }iall, in dark array, 

Two fair-haired boys she led. 

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, 

And still before him stood ; 
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 

Flushed the proud warrior blood : 
And " Speak, my mother ! speak ! " he cried, 

" Wherefore this mourning vest ? 
And the clinging children by thy side, 

In weeds of sadness dressed ? " 

•' Well may a mourning vest be mine. 

And theirs, my son, my son ! 
Look on the features of thy line 

In each fair little one ! 
Though grief a while within their eyes 

Hath tamed the dancing glee, 
yet there thine own quick spirit lies — 

Thy brother's children see ' 

" And where is he, thy brother — where ? 

He in thy home that grew. 
And smiling, with his sunny hair, 

Ever to greet thee flew ? 
How would his arms thy neck intwine, 

His fond lips press thy brow ! 
My son ! O, call these orphans thine ! — 

Thou hast no brother now ! 

•* What ! from their gentle eyes doth nought 

Speak of thy childhood's hours, 
And smite thee with a tender thought 

Of thy dead father's towers ? 
Kind was thy boyish heart and true, 

When reared together there. 
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew — 

Where is thy brother — where ? 

" Wtjll didst thou love him then, and he 

Still at thy side was seen ! 
How is it that such things can be 

As though they ne'er had been ? 
Evil was this world's breath, w^hich came 

Between the good and brave ! 
Now must the tears of grief and shame 

Be offered to the grave. 

" And let them, let them there be poured ! 

Though all unfelt below — 
Fhine own wrung heart, to love restored, 

Shall soften as they flow. 



O, death is mighty to make peace j 

Now bid his work be done ! 
So many an inward strife shall Cf.ase — 

Take, take these babes, my son ! " 

His eye was dimmed — the strong man s:ook 

With feelings long suppressed ; 
Up in his arms the boys he took, 

And strained them to his breast. 
And a shout from all in the royal haU 

Burst forth to hail the sight ; 
And eyes were wet 'midst the brave that mefl 

At the Kaiser's feast that night. 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 

"Devant vous est Sorrente; la demeuroit la soDur de TaaBe, 
quand il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure araie un aijU 
centre I'injustice des princes. — Ses longues douleurs avaienl 
presque egare sa raison ; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie." — 

COEINWE. 

She sat, where on each wind that sighed 

The citron's breath went by. 
While the red gold of eventide 

Burned in th' Italian sky. 
Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full oft sweet laughter found. 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful at her knee 

Her children stood that hour. 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee 

Hushed as by words of power. 
With bright fixed wondering eyes, that gfjsed 

Up to their mother's face. 
With brows through parted ringlets raised. 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she — yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read ; 
The proud undying lay, which poured 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword,' 

The triumph, and the tears. 

She read of fair Erminia's flight, 
Which Venice once might hear 



1 It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known 
saying, that Tasso, with l)is sword and pen was superior u 
all men. 



188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Sung on her glittering seas at night 




By many a gondolier : 


TJLLA; OR, THE ADJURATION. 


Of him she read, who broke the charm 




That wrapped the myrtle grove ; 


" Yet speak to me ! I have outn'otched the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee. 


Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, 


Speak to nie 1 I have wandered o'er the earth 


That slew his Paynim love. 


And never found thy likeness. Speak to me 
This once — once more 1 " MANtBiD 


Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, 


" Thou'rt gone ! — thou'rt slumbering low. 


Young holy hearts were stirred ; 


With the sounding seas above thee : 


A.nd the meek tears ol woman flowed 


It is but a restless woe, 


Fast o'er each burning word. 


But a haunting dream, to love thee ! 


And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leal, 


Thrice the glad swan has sung 


Came sweet, each pause between. 


To greet the spring-time hours. 


When a strange voice of sudden grief 


Since thine oar at parting flung 


Burst on the gentle scene. 


The white spray up in showers. 




There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and 


The mother turned — a way-worn man, 


round thy home ; 


In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 


Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou'rt 


Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 


surely of them - come ! " 


Of proud yet mournful eye. 




But drops which would not stay for pride 


'Twas Ulla's voice ! Alone she stood 


From that dark eye gushed free. 


In the Iceland summer night, 


As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 


Far gazing o'er a glassy flood 


" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 


From a dark rock's beetling height. 


" Am I so changed ! — and yet we two 


"I know thou hast thy bed 


Oft hand in hand have played ; 


Where the seaweed's coil hath bound thee ; 


This brow hath been all bathed in dew 


The storm sweeps o'er thy head. 


From wreaths which thou hast made ; 


But the depths are hushed around thee. 


We have knelt down and said one prayer. 


What wind shall point the way 


And sung one vesper strain ; 


To the chambers where thou'rt lying ? 


My soul is dim with clouds of care — 


Come to me thence, and say 


Tell me those w.ords again ! 


If thou thought' st on me in dying ? 




I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless 


"Life hath been heavy on my head — 


lip and cheek. 


I come a stricken deer, 


Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou'rt 


Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled. 


surely of them — speak ! " 


To bleed in stillness here." 




She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 


She listened — 'twas the wind's low moan. 


Shook all her thrilling frame — 


'Twas the ripple of the wave, 


She fell upon his neck and wept. 


'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone 


Murmuring her brother's name. 


As it startled from its cave. 


Her brother's name ! — and who was he, 


'« I know each fearful spell 


The weary one, th' unknown. 


Of the ancient Runic lay. 


That came, the bitter world to flee, 


Whose muttered words compel 


A stranger to his own ? 


The tempest to obey. 


He was the bard of gifts divine 


But I adjure not thee 


To sway the souls of men ; 


By magic sign or song ; 


He of the song for Salem's shrine, 


My voice shall stir the sea 


He of the sword and pen ! 


By love — the deep, the strong ! 




By the might of woman's tears, by the passiaa 




of her sighs, 




Come to me from the ocean's dead I — by th« 




vows we pledged, arise ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



48V 



Again she gazed with an eager glance, 
Wandering and wildly bright ; — 

She saw but the sparkling waters dance 
Tc ihe arrowy northern light. 

■** By the slow and struggling death 
Of hope that loathed to part, 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart — 
By the weight of gloom which clings 

To the mantle of the night, 
By the heavy dawn which brings 
Nought lovely to the sight — 
By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung 

of grief and fear, 
'~'ome to me from the ocean's dead ! Awake, 
arise, appear ! " 

"Was it her yearning spirit's dream ? 

Or did a pale form rise, 
And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam, 

With bright, still, mournful eyes ? 

•* ±f ave the depths heard ? They have ! 
My voice prevails : thou'rt there, 
Dim from thy watery grave — 

O thou that wert so fair ! 
Yet take me to thy rest ! 

There dwells no fear with love ; 
Let me slumber on thy breast. 
While the billow rolls above ! 
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the 

bright ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead. Stay for 
me, stay ! — I come ! " 

TLere was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main ; 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's 
woe — 

Shut, and grew still again. 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Thine is a, strain to read among the hills. 

The old and full of voices — by the source 
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence 
fills 
The solitude with sound ; for in its course 
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 
'>f those h^'gh scenes, a fountain from their 
^xeart. 

62 



Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, 
Where vernal winds each tree's low tones 
awaken, 
And bud and bell with changes mark the 
hours. 
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the 

day 
Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 
^Vhen night hath hushed the woods with all 

their birds. 
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were 

sweet 
As antique music, linked with household 

words ; 
While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might 

move, 
And the raised eye of childhood shine in lovo. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial ground, 

Thy verse hath power that brightly might dif- 
fuse 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around ; 

From its own glow of hope and courage high. 

And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy ! — thou art e'en as one 

Who, by some secret gift of soid or eye, 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 

Sees where the springs of living waters lie: 
Unseen a while they sleep — till, touched by 

thee. 
Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glail 
wanderer free. 



A MONARCH'S DEATH BED. 

[The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assaysinatot. 
by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, war 
left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his las't mm 
ments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing 1 

A MONARCH on his death bed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume, 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray. 

Through his proud chambei's gloom ? 
He lay upon a greensward bed. 

Beneath a darkening sky- 
A lone tree waving o'er his nead, 

A swift stream rolling by. 



too 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Had he then fallen as warriors fall, 

Where spear strikes fire with spear ? 
"Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier ? 
Not so — nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod, 
"Where he, the helpless lord of realms, 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends with words of cheer, 

And princely vassals nigh ? 
A.nd priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the glazing eye ? 
A peasant girl that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid. 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread. 

The face of death surveyed. 

Alone she sat : from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood — 

Treason its worst had done. 
With her long hair she vainly pressed 

The wounds, to stanch their tide — 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 

Imperial Albert died ! 



TO THE MEMOEY OF HEBER. 

" TJmile in tanta gloria." — Petrarch. 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone. 
Of sainted genius called too soon away, 

Of light from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day — 

How shall our grierf, if mournful these things 
be. 

Flow forth, O thou of many gifts ! for thee ? 

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard ? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power, 

Have we not felt its breath in every word 

Wont from thy lip as Hermon's dew to 

shower ? 

Yes ! in our heaits thy fervent thoughts have 

burned — 
Of heaven they were, and thither have returned. 

How shall we mourn thee r With a lofty trust, 
Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
ITirough shades and mysteries lifts a glance 
of love, 



And yet can weep ! — foi nature thus deplore* 
The friend that leaves us, though for happie* 
shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture, be allowed ! 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, 
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed, 

In those bright regions of the rising suHj 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had "wo* 

Praise ! for yet one more name with power en 
dowed 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; 
Yet one more image on the heart bestowed 

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness ! 
Thine, Heber, thine ! whose rutmory from th 

dead 
Shines as the star which to t m Savior led ! 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

*' Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams. 
And the sunshine of picture forever streams." 

" O, green is the turf where my brothers play. 
Through the long bright hours of the summe 

day; 
They find the red cup moss where they climb. 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thym« 
And the rocks where the heath flower bloon 

they know — 
Lady, kind lady ! 0, let me go ! " 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell — 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest wel 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune. 
And the silvery wood note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard 

" O, my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee : 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! 0, let me go ! " 

'• Thy mother is gone from her cares to res' 
She hath taken the babe :»n her quiet breast ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



431 



fhou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy ! no 

more, 
Nor hear the song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

•« Is my mother gone from her home away ! 
But I know that my brothers are there at play — 
I knew they are gathering the foxglove's bell, 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go ! " 

" Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
I'hey have left the fern by the spring's green 

side. 
And the streams where the fairy barks were 

tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

•* Are they gone, all gone, from the sunny hill ? 
But the bii-d and the blue fl-H- rove o'er it still ; 
And the red deer bound in their gladness 

free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
A.nd the waters leap, and thr fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me §o ! " 



INVOCATION. 

••I called on dreams and visions vo disclose 
That which is veiled from wa> Jig thought ; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer." Wordsworth. 

Answer me, burning s*-ers of night ! 

Where is the spirit pone. 
That past the reach of human sight 

As a swift breeze ha*"h flown ? 
And the stars answered me — ** "We roll 

In light and power on high ; 
But, of the nevcr-dyip^ soul. 

Ask that which cannot die." 

O many-toned and ch^inless wind ! 

Thou art a wander*«r free ; 
Tell me if thou its p)qce canst find 

Far over mount a»>d sea ? 
Ind the wind murr^ured in reply — 

*' The blue deep 1 have crossed. 
And met its bar'^cs «,nd billows high, 

But r.o^, vLa^ tbou hast lost." 



Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run > 
The bright clouds answered -"We depart 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart. 

For that which cannot d>» 

Speak then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me, through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered — "Be thou still ' 

Enough to know is given : 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil 

T/ime is, to trust in Heaven." 



KOJRNER ^ND HIS SISTER. 

["Charles Theodore Kbrner, the celebrated young Cer 
man poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a de- 
tachment of French troops on the 20lh of August, 1813, a 
few hours after the composition of liis popular piece, Tht 
Sword Song. He was buried at the village of Wdbbtlin in 
Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he 
had frequently deposited verses composed by him while 
campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to hia 
memory is of cast iron; and the upper part is wrought into 
a lyre and sword, a favorite emblem of KSrner's, from 
which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave 
of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for 
his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete 
his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the 
gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines : — 

* Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.' 
(Forget not the faithful dead.)" 

— See Richardson's Translation of K'dmer^s Life and 
Works, and Downe's Letters from JHectilenburg.] 

Green wave the oak forever o'er thy rest. 
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast. 
Thy place of memory as an altar keepest ; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured. 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 

Rest, bard! rest, soldier! By the father'! 
hand 
Here shall the child of after years be led, 
With his wreath ofi'ering silently to stand 
In the hushed presence of the glorioui 
dead — 
Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 



492 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



rh.e oak waved proudly o'er thj' burial rite, 
On thj crowned bier to slumber warriors 
bore thee, 
Ajid with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
"Wept as they veiled their drooping banners 
o'er thee ; 
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 

Thou nast a hero's tomb : a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying — 

The gentle girl that bowed her fair young head 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying, 

Bro'^her, true friend ! the tender and the brave ! 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; — but for her, 
To whom the wide world held that only 
spot, 
She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were, 

And in your early deaths divided not. 
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy, — what hath 
she? 
Her own blessed place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 

The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye. 
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye 
played. 
And sent glad singing through the free blue 
sky. 
Ye were but two — and when that spirit passed, 
"Woe to the one, the last ! 

Woe, yet not long ! She lingered but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast — 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er — 
It answered hers no more. 

rhe earth grew silent Avhen thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had 
fled; 
Whiat then was loft for her, the faithful hearted ? 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the 
dead! 
Boftly she perished : be the Flower deplored 
Here with the Lyre and Sword ! 

Have ye not met ere now ? — so let those trust 
That meet for moments but to part for years — 

Chat weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 
dust — 
Tliat love, where love is but a fount of tears. 



Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dweU 
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! * 



THE DEATH DAY OF KORNEK 

A SONG for the death day of the brave ~ 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's gravCj 

With the sword, his bride.^ 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high — 
An eagle stooping from clouds of mom, 

Only to die. 

He met vAth. the lyre, whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrilled to the name of his God alone 

And his fatherland. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow. 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath 
met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight. 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watchfire's light. 



1 The following lines, addressed to the author of the 
above, by the venerable father of Kbrner, who, with the 
mother, survived the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower," here 
commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the G^rm&n 
reader : — 

" Wohllaut tont aus der Feme von fretinnichen Luften getragen. 

Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in Jer Trauernden Ohr, 

Starkt den erhebenden Glauhen an solcher seelcn Verwandsclutft, 

Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn. 

Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling 

Hingezogen eefuhlt, winl ihm ein glazender Lohn. 

Hcil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fiemd 

ietl 
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand." 

TUEODOR Kokneb's Vatkb. 

2 On reading part of a letter from Kbmer's father, ad- 
dressed to Mr. Richardson, the translator of his works, in 
which he speaks of" The death day of his son." 

3 See The Sword Scr.g, composed on the morning of hil 
death 



A.nd a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

'Midst all high thought ; 
Ajid a memory unto his mother's breast, 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright. 

In life and death ! 

A. song for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's* grave, 

With the sword, his bride ! 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 

« I come 
To this Bweet place for qniet Every tree, 
And bush, and fragrant ilower, and hilly path, 
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
Its morning incense, is my friend." — Baert Corxwall. 

There were thick leaves above me and around, 

And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's 
sleep. 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 

As of soft showers on water ; dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still 
They seemed but pictured glooms ; a hidden 

riU 
Made music such as haunts us in a dream. 
Under the fern tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed. 

Came pouring through the woven beech 
boughs down, 
And steeped the magic page wherein I read 

Of royal chivalry and old renown, 
A tale of Palestine.^ Meanwhile the bee 

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours — 

A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 
Blue skies, and amber sunshine : brightly free. 
On filmy wings, the purple dragon fly 
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by : 
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 

Where sat the lone wood pigeon. 

But ere long, 
All sense ol these things faded, as the spell 

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew 
strong 
On my chained soul. 'Twas not the leaves I 

heard : 
k. Syrian wind the lion banner stirred, 

I The Talisman — Tales of the Crusaders. 



Through its proud floating folds. 'Twas not th*! 

brook 
Singing in secret through its grassy glen ; 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are 

high. 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and 8p«ar 
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay 

clear. 
Shadowed by graceful palm trees. Then the 

shout 
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out. 
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorioua 

hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of 

blue : 
And harps were there — I heard their sounding 

strings. 
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. 
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track, 
What called me from its flood of glory back ? 
A voice of happy childhood I — and they passed, 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast. 
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone. 
My heart so leaped to that sweet laughter's 

tone. 



A YOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. 

" His very heart athirst 
To gaze at Nature in her green array. 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possessed 
With visions prompted by intense desire ; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find : 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more." 

COWPKB. 

The hollow dash of waves ! — the ceaseless 

roar ! — 
Silence, ye billows ! — vex my soul no more. 
There's a spring in the woods bv rry sunny 

home. 
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ; 
0, the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear ! 
And the sparkle which up to the sun i* 

throws 
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughi^ 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread. 



*94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


They haunt me ! I dream of that bright spring's 


Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go 


flow, 


To the hills of my youth, where the myrtlei 


I. thirst, for its rills like a wounded roe ! 


blow. 




To the depths of the woods, where the shadows 


Be still, thou sea bird, with thy clanging cry ! 


rest. 


My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by. 


Massy and still, on the greensward's breast, 




To the rocks that resound to the waters 


Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 


play — 


Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round ? 


I hear the sweet laugh of my fount — git« 


Know ye it, brethren ! where bowered it lies 


way ! 


Under the purple of southern skies ? 




With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 


Give way ! — the booming surge, the tempest'i 


In through the cloud of its clustering vines, 


roar, 


And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, 


The sea bird's wail shall vex my soul no more. 


Borne from the mountain in dewy hours. 




And the firefly's glance through the darkening 




shades. 




Like shooting stars in the forest glades, 




And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall — 


THE EFFIGIES. 


Speak ! have ye known, have ye felt them 


«Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann: 


all? 


Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 




Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen 




Der uberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Fran, 


The heavy-rolling surge ! the rockmg mast ! — 


Zahlt keine Nachwelt." Goethb. 


Hush ! give my dream's deep music way, thou 




blast ! 


Warrior ! whose image on thy tomh, 




With shield and crested head, 


0, the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 


Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 


The notes of the singing cicala's mirth. 


By the stained window shed ; 


The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, 


The records of thy name and race 


The sighing of reeds as the day declines, 


Have faded from the stone, 


The wings flitting home through the crimson 


Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace 


glow 


What thou hast been and done. 


That steeps the wood when the sun is low, 




The voice of the night bird, that sends a thrill 


A banner, from its flashing spear. 


To the heart of the leaves when the winds are 


Flung out o'er many a fight ; 


still — 


A war cry ringing far and clear. 


I hear them ! — around me they rise, they sweU, 


And strong to turn the flight ; 


They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell — 


An arm that bravely bore the lance 


They come with a breath from the fresh spring 


On for the holy shrine ; 


time, 


A haughty heart and a kingly glance — 


And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 


Chief ! were not these things thine ? 


The white foam dashes high — away, away ! 


A lofty place where leaders sate 


Bhroud my green land no more, thou blinding 


Around the council board ; 


spray ! 


In festive halls a chair of state 




When the blood- red wine was poured , 


It is there ! — down the mountains I see the 


A name that drew a prouder tone 


sweep 


From herald, harp, and bard : 


Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 


Surely these things were all thine own — 


With the burden and glory of flowers that they 


So hadst thou thy reward. 


bear 




Phsating upborne on the blue summer air. 


Woman ! whose sculptured form at re«t 


And the light pouring through them in tender 


By the armed knight is laid. 


gleams, 


With meek hands folded o'er a breast 


And the flashing forth of a thousand streams 


In matron robes arra^ved ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



494 



What was iJuj tale ? O gentle mate 

Of him, the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate. 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He wooed a bright and burning star — 

Thine was the void, the gloom, 
The straining eye that followed far 

His fast-receding plume ; 
rhe heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did Fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these ? 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day 
While bending o'er thy broidered flowers, 

With spirits far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

WTio fought on Syrian plains, 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim — 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A. still, sad life was thine ! — long years 

With tasks unguerdoned fraught — 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 

VigUs of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervor poured, 

Alms to the pilgrim given — 
0, happy, happier than thy lord, 

^ that lone path to heaven ! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. 

" Look now abroad I Another race has filled 

Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads." 

Beyaitt. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy rky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 



Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea , 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods riut^ 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band ; — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ' 

There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war •"' - 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They have left unstained what there then 
found — 

Freedom to worship God. 



THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 

" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside forever ; — it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's breath, or spring — 

A flower — a leaf— the ocean — which may wound — 
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound.' 

CniLDE HASOL& 

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds tj 
waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shoio 
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, oui own no 
more; 
Is not this all a mystery ? Who shall say 
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tnni-U 
their way ? 



496 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The sudden images of vanished things, 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, 
AVarm sunset hues of summers long gone by ; 

A rippling wave — the dashing of an oar — 

A flower scent floating past our parents' door ; 

A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance. 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile — a sunny or a mournful glance. 
Full of sweet meanings now from this world 
flown ; 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start, 

And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ? 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead. 

And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear — 

These are night's mysteries — who shall make 
them clear ? 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, 

Li a low tone which nought can drown or still, 
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow 
fall? 

Why shakes the spirit thus ? 'Tis mystery all ! 

Darkly we move — we press upon the brink 
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 

Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think 
Are those whom death has parted from our lot^ 

Fearfully, wondrously our souls are made — 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 

Yet undismayed — for do they not reveal 
Th' immortal being with our dust intwined ? — 

Bo let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake 

Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 



THE DEPARTED. 

" Thou Shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise — the good, 
Jfair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre." Brtaitt. 

And shrink ye from the way 
To the spirit's distant shore <* — 



Earth's mightiest men, in armed array, 
Are thither gone before. 

The warior kings, whose banner 

Flew far as eagles fly. 
They are gone where swords avail them not, 

From the feast of victory. 

And the seers who sat of yore 

By Orient palm or wave, 
They have passed with all their starry lore — 



Can ve stiU fear the 



grave i 



We fear ! we fear ! The STinshine 

Is joyous to behold. 
And we reck not of the buried kings, 

Nor the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink ! The bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts bum, 

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise 
For the land whence none return. 

And the beautiful, whose record 

Is the verse that cannot die, 
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, 

From the love of human eye. 

Would ye not join that throng 

Of the earth's departed flowers, 
And the masters of the mighty song, 

In their far and fadeless bowers ? 



Those songs are high and holy. 
But they vanquish not our fear : 

Not from our path those flowers are 
We fain would linger here ! 



Linger then yet a while. 

As the last leaves on the bough ! — 
Ye have loved the light of many a smile 

That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 
In your walks, that now are still ; 

There are seats left void in j'our earthly homek 
Which none again may fill. 

Soft eyes are seen no more. 

That made spring time in your heart ; 
Kindred and friends are gone before — 

And ye still fear to part ? 

We fear not now, we fear not ! 

Though the way through darkness bends i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 49l 


Our souls are strong to follow them, 


Ay, to his ear that native tone 


Our own familiar friends ! 


Had something of the sea- wave's moan ! 




His mother's cabin home, that lay 




Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 


THE PALM TREE.' 


The dashing of his brethren's oar — 




The conch note heard along the shore ; 


It waved not through an Eastern sky, 


All through his wakening bosom swept — 


Beside a fount of Araby ; 


He clasped his country's tree, and wept ! 


It was not fanned by Southern breeze 




In some green isle of Indian seas ; 


0, scorn him not ! The strength whereby 


Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 


The patriot girds himself to die, 


O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 


Th' unconquerable power which fills 




The freeman battling on his hills, 


But fair the exiled palm tree grew 


These have one fountain deep and clear — 


'Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 


The same whence gushed that childlike tear ! 


Through the laburnum's dropping gold 




Rose the light shaft of Orient mould, 




And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 




"urpled the moss beds at its feet. 


THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. 


Strange looked it there ! The willow streamed 


SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S. 


Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 




The lime bough lured the honey bep 


Thou sleepest — but when wilt thou wake, fail 


To murmur by the desert's tree, 


child ? 


And showers of snowy roses made 


When the faAvn awakes in the forest wild ? 


\ lustre in its fan-like shade 


When the lark's wing mounts with the bree^j 




of morn ? 


There came an eve of festal hours — 


When the first rich breath of the rose is born ? — 


Rich music filled that garden's bowers ; 


Lovely thou sleepest ! yet something lies 


Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, 


Too deep and still on thy soft- sealed eyes ; 


On sparks of dew soft color flung ; 


Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see -^ 


And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 


When will the hour of thy rising be ? 


Under the blossoms to and fro. 






Not when the fawn wakes — not when. th» 


But one, a .one one, 'midst the throng, 


lark 


Seemed reckless all of dance or song : 


On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. 


He was a youth of dusky mien. 


Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet 


Whereon the Indian sun had been. 


The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow 


Of crested brow and long black hair — 


yet; 


A stranger, like the palm tree, there. 


Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath pressed 




Thy meek-dropped eyelids and quiet breast ; 


And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 


And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee. 


Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. 


Shall color all blossoms, fair child ! but thee. 


He passed the pale-green olives by. 




Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 


Thou'rt gone from us, bright one ! — that thcM 


But when to that sole palm he came. 


shouldst die. 


Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 


And life be left to the butterfly ! « 




Thou'rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from th-, 


To him, to him its rustling spoke — 


bough : 


The silence of his soul it broke ! 


for the world where thy home is now ! 


It whispered of his own bright isle. 


How may we love but in doubt and fear. 


That lit the ocean with a smile ; 


How may we anchor our fond hearts ht-e ; 


1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his 


2 A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptui^d n» 


9oem of Les /ardins. 

63 


the monument 



198 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



How should e'en joy but a trembler be 
Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee 



THE SUNBEAM. 

rHOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall — 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hojie unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles ; 
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, 
And gladdened the sailor like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green 

arcades ; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow 
Like fireflies glance to the pools below. 

I looked on the mountains — a vapor lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou breakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on tbe peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapped the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell. 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art. 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou takest through the dim church aisle thy 

way, 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to-day, 
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old. 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

Acd thou turnest not from the humblest grave. 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatter' St its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Bunbeam of summer ! O, what is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 
One thing is like thee to mortals given. 
The faith tou''hing all thir.gs with hues of 
heaven : 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 

Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs ; bring back 
The love that I have lost I 

What wakest thou. Spring ? Sweet voices in 
the woods. 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been 
mute : 
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless 
fiute, 
Whose tone seems breathing moumfulness oi 
glee, 

E'en as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee. Spring ! — the joyoua 
leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade. 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives. 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whis- 
pery shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters — they too hear tny call, 
Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of 
flowers ! 
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And pencilUng the wood anemone : 
Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtfux eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 



a in the hearty O Spring ! 
with all its dreams and 



But what awakest + 
The human heart, 
sighs ? 
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er 
thou art — 

What -wakest thou in the heart ? 

Too much, O, there too much ! We know not 

well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by 
thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



49? 



SVliat fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's 
deep cr^ll, 
Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
Row are we haunted, in the wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

[jooks of familiar love, that nevermore. 

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet. 
Past words of welcome to our household door, 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted 
feet — 
Spring ! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering 
trees. 

Why, why reviv'st thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they 
back 
WJth thy young birds, and leaves, and living 
blooms ? 
0, if \t not, that from thine earthly track 
Hrpe to thy world may look beyond the 
tombs ? 
Yes, gentle Spring ! no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 



THE ILLUMINATED CITY. 

The hills all glowed with a festive light, 

For the royal city rejoiced by night : 

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and 

tree, 
Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 
Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire ; 
Like a shooting meteor was every spire ; 
And the outline of many a dome on high 
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark 

sky. 

I passed through the streets. There were 

throngs on throngs — 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled 

songs ; 
rhere was music forth from each palace borne — 
A. peal of the c^-mbal, the harp, and horn ; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang, 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 
Rich and victorious was every tone. 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ? 
Thousands lie dead on their battle plain ! 
G^aliant and true were the hearts that fell — 
S^rie/^ in the homes they have left must dwell : 



Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, 
And bowing the beauty of woman's head ! 
Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one ten 

der moan 
For the many brave to their slumbers gone - 

I saw not the face of a weeper there — 

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps 

glare ! 
I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd — 
The music of victory was all too loud ! 
^Mighty it rolled on the winds afar, 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car — 
Through torches and streamers its flood swep 

by: 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants — turn. 
If its deep story thy heart would learn ! 
Ever too bright is that outwa I show. 
Dazzling the eyes till they se not woe. 
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thv 

view 
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad 

and true ; 
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal : 
So must thy spirit be taught to feel ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 



" There blend the ties that strengthen 
Our hearts in hours of grief, 
Tlie silver links that lengthen 
Joy's visits when most brief." 

Bernard Baki-o^ 



By the soft green light in the wood}' glade, 
On the banks of moss where thy childhooQ 

played. 
By the household tree through which thine eyf 
First looked in love to the summer sky, 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath. 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious — O, guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath lulled thee into many a dtt-am. 
By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement eavea. 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes. 
By every sound of thy native shade. 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 



lOU 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



By the gathering round the winter hearth, 

When twihght called unto household mirth, 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told, 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind '* Good 

night ! " 
3y the smiling eye, and the loving tone. 
Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away — 
When the sullying breath of the world would 

MDme 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home — 
Think thou again of the w^oody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made — 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
\nd the kindly spell shall have power once 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 

" Roma, Roma, Roma I 
Non e piu come era prima." 

Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Tnou satt'st a qu^en. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street. 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bowed at thy feet. 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now ? — 

Thou hast thy skies ! 



Blue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With colored light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome ! for thy dower, 
Flushing tall cypress bough, 

Temple and tower ! 

And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear, 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine, 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn. 

By starlight sung. 
Sweeps through the arches dim 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell 

On thy soft air 
Lingers and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the south's rich gift 

Of sudden song — 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that more 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome«. thou art no mow 

As thou hast been ) 



THE DISTANT SHIP. 

The sea-bird's wing o'er ocean's breaat 

Shoots like a glancing star. 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far ; 
And yet that splendor wins thee not — 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells but on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and sky. 

Look round thee ! O'er the slumbering clsej 

A solemn glory broods ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



501 



A fire hath touched the beacon steep, 

And all the golden woods ; 
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 

Burn with the amber light ! — 
What spell from that rich pageantry 

Chains down thy gazing sight ? 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling linked to earth ! 
fs not yon speck a bark which bears 

The loved of many a hearth ? 
O, do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear 

Crowd her frail world even now. 
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear 

Follow her venturous prow ? 

Bright are the floating clouds above. 

The glittering seas below ; 
But we are bound by cords of love 

To kindred weal and woe. 
rherefore, amidst this wide array 

Of glorious things and fair, 
My soul is on that bark's lone way — 

For human hearts are there. 



THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering -sving ! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ? 
'* We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the rose* of Sharon smile. 
From the palms that wave through the Indian 

sky, 
From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby. 

'* We have swept o'er cities in song renowned — 

Silent they lie with the deserts round ! 

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath 

rolled 
All dark with the warrior blood of old ; 
And each worn wing hath regained its homo. 
Under peasant's roof trees or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome 
Bince last ys traversed the blue sea's foam ? 
f • We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, 
And a mark on the floor as of lifedro])S spilt — 
Nought looks the same save the nest we built ! " 

joyous birds ! it hath still been so : 
riirough the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
But the huts of the hamlet he still and deep, 
li\d the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep : 



Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot. 
Since last we parted from that sweet spot ? 

" A change we have found there — and many « 

change ! 
Faces and footsteps, and all things strange ! 
Gone are the heads of the silvery haii 
And the young that were have a brov of care 
And the place is hushed where the chiidien 

played — 
Nought looks the same save the nest we made \ 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ' 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
Ye have a guide, and shall tve despair ? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed — 
So may we reach our bright home at last ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLP 

They grew in beauty side by side, 
They filled one home with glee ; 

Their graves are severed far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow : 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

WTiere are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forest of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dresueJ 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapped liis colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 
Beneath the same green tree ; 



5C2 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Whose voices mingled as they prayed 


Within this clay hath been the o'ermaateiiai 


Around one parent knee ! 


flame ; 




Swift thoughts, that came and went, 


rhey that with smiles lit up the hall, 


Like torrents o'er me sent, 


And cheered with song the hearth ! — 


Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 


Alas, for love ! if thou wert all. 




And nought beyond, Earth ! 


Like perfumes on the wind. 




Which none may stay or bind. 




The beautiful comes floating through my soul j 




I strive with yearnings vam 




The spirit to detain 


MOZART'S REQUIEM. 


Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 


[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of 


Therefore disturbing dreams 


emarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, 


Trouble the secret streams 


called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, 




in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. 


And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; 


The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately 


Something far more di\'ine 


seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate ; 


Than may on earth be mine 


and the nervous anxiety with which he labored to fulfil the 


Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest 


task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died 




within a few days after completing this magnificent piece 




of music, which was performed at his interment.] 


Shall I then /ear the tone 




That breathes from worlds unknown ? 


" These birds of paradise but long to flee 


Surely these feverish aspirations there 


Back to their native mansion." 

Prophecy of Dante. 


Shall grasp their full desire. 




And this unsettled fire 


A REQUIEM ! — and for whom ? 


Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 


For beauty in its bloom ? 




For valor fallen — a broken rose or sword ? 


One more then, one more strain ; 


A dirge for king or chief, 


To earthly joy and pain 


With pomp of stately grief, 


A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 


Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ? 


I pour each fervent thought, 




With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 


Not so — it is not so ! 


Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 


The warning voice I know. 




From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 




A solemn funeral air 




It called me to prepare. 


THE IMAGE IN LAVA.» 


And my heart answered secretly — My own ! 






Thou thing of years departed ! 


One more then, one more strain, 


What ages have gone by 


In links of joy and pain. 


Since here the mournful seal was set 


Mighty the troubled spirit to inthrall ! 


By love and agony r 


And let me breathe my dower 




Of passion and of power 


Temple and tower have mouldered, 


thill into that deep lay — the last of all ! 


Empires from earth have passed. 




And woman's heart hath left & trace 


Tlie last ! — and I must go 


Those glories to outlast ! 


From this bright world below% 




ri'is realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! 


And childhood's fragile image, 


Must leave its festal skies, 


Thus fearfully cjishrined. 


With all their melodies, 


Survives the proud memorials reared 


That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 


By conquerors of mankind. 




1 The impression of a woman's l..rm, with an infan 


Yet have I kno\\ n it long : 


clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering' cf Hercull 


Too restless and too strong 


neuin. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



601 



Babe ! vvert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest ? 

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part ! 

Haj)ly of that fond bosom 

On ashes here impressed, 
Tliou wert the only treasure, child ! 

"Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavished 

Its other love had been ; 
And where it trusted, nought remained 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better, then, to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 

From that impassioned grasp. 

0, I could pass all relics 

licft by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love ! human love ! what art thou ? 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

jjnmortal, O, immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness — 
It must, it mmt be so ! 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

LOVELY voices of the sky. 

That hymned the Savior's birth ! 
Are ye not singing still on high, 
Ye that sang "Peace on earth" ? 
To us yet speak the strains 

Wherewith, in days gone by, 
Ye blessed the Syrian swains, 
O voices of the sky ! 

clear and shining lighj; ! whose beams 
That hour heaven's gi Ty shed 



Around the palms, and o'er the streams. 
And on the shepherd's head ; 

Be near, through life and death, 

As in that holiest night 
Of Hope, and Joy, and Faifh, 
C clear and shining light ! 

O star ! which led to Him whose lov«* 
Brought down man's ransom free ; 
Where art thou ? — 'Midst the hosts abOT« 
May we still gaze on thee ? 

In heaven thou art not set. 

Thy rays earth might not dim — 
Send them to guide us yet, 
' O star which led to Him ! 



A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 

'TwAs early day, and sunlight streamed 

Soft through a quiet room, 
That hushed, but not forsaken seemed. 

Still, but with nought of gloom. 
For there, serene in happy age 

Whose hope is from above, 
A father communed with the page 

Of Heaven's recorded love. 

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 

On his gray holy hair, 
And touched the page with tenderest ligh^ 

As if its shrine were there ! 
But O, that patriarch's aspect shone 

With something lovelier far — 
A radiance all the spirit's own, 

Caught not from sun or star. 

Some word of life e'en then had met 

His calm, benignant eye ; 
Some ancient promise, breathing yet 

Of immortality ! 
Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 

Of quenchless faith survives : 
While every feature said — «' / know 

That my Redeoner lives ! " 

And silent stood his childre* by, 

Hushing their very breath, 
Before the solemn sanctity 

Of thoughts o'crs weeping death. 
Silent — yet did not each young breast 

With love and reverence melt ? 
O, blest be those fair girls, and blest 

That home where God is felt \ 



4U4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS. 



" His early days 

Were with liim in his heart." 



Wordsworth. 



The voices of two forest boys, 

In years when hearts intwine, 
Had filled with childhood's merry noise 

A valley of the Rhine : 
To rock and stream that sound was known, 
Gladsome as hunter's bugle tone. 

The sunny laughter of their eyes 
There had each vineyard seen ; 

Up every cliff whence eagles rise 
TTieir bounding step had been ; 

Ay ! their bright youth a glory threw 

O'er the wild place wherein they grew. 

But this, as dayspring's flush, was brief 

As early bloom or dew ; 
Alas ! 'tis but the withered leaf 

That wears th' enduring hue ! 
Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore 
Might girdle in their world no more. 

For now on manhood's verge they stood, 

And heard life's thrilling call. 
As if a silver clarion wooed 

To some high festival ; 
And parted as young brothers part, 
With love in each unsullied heart. 

They parted. Soon the paths divide 

Wherein our steps were one, 
Like river branches, far and wide, 

Dissevering as they run ; 
And making strangers in their course 
Of waves that had the same bright source. 

Met they no more ? Once more they met 
Those kindred hearts and true ! 

'Twas on a field of death, where yet 
The battle thunders flew. 

Though the fierce day was well nigh past. 

And the red sunset smiled its last. 

But as the combat closed, they found 

For tender thoughts a space, 
And e'en upon that bloody ground 

Room for one bright embrace. 
And poured forth on each other's neck 
Such tears as warriors need not check. 

i For tbe tale on which tliis little poem is founded, s( 
6 thermite en Oalie. 



The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread 

All melted with those tears. 
The faces of the holy dead 

Rose as in vanished years ; 
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest. 
Lifted its voice in each full breast ! 

O, was it then a time to die .'' 

It was ! — that not in vain 
The soul of childhood's purity 

And peace night turn again. 
A ball swept forth — 'twas guided wefl-*- 
Heart unto heart those brothers fell ! 

Happy, yes, happy thus to go ! 

Bearing from earth away 
Affections, gifted ne'er to know 

A shadow — a decay — 
A passing touch of change or chill, 
A breath of aught whose breath can kill, 

And they, between whose severed souls, 

Once in close union tied, 
A gulf is set, a current rolls 

Forever to divide ; 
Well may they envy such a lot 
Whose hearts yearn on — but mingle not. 



THE LAST WISH. 

Go to the forest shade. 

Seek thou the well-known glade, 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 
Gleaming through moss tufts deep. 
Like dark eyes filled with sleep. 

And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky 

Bring me their buds, to shed 

Around my dying bed 
A breath of May and of the wood's repose ; 

For I, in sooth, depart ^ 

With a reluctant heart. 
That fain would linger where the bright sua 
glows. 

Fain would I stay mth thee ! — 

Alas ! this may not be ; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours I 

Go where the fountain's breast 

Catches, in glassy vest, 
The dim green light that pours through laurel 
bowers. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



6C{ 



I know how softly bright, 

S*eeped in that tender light, 
rhe water lilies tremble there e'en now ; 

Go to the pure stream's edge. 

And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my levered brow ! 

Then, as in Hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
()f the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree — 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honeyed lime above : 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of rU its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first revealed our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough. 

Then, from Ae lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last 

Through dim wood lanes we passed. 
While dews were glancing to the glowworm's 
spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve — 
Yet shall their odor soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! 

And O, if thou wouldst ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace — 

'Tis that some thought of me. 

When I am gone, may be 
Ihe spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell 

(O, break not thou the spell !) 
\A Sbe deep wood and by the fountain side ; 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Rove w]\ere we two have roved, 
Poi'getting her that in her spring time died ! 



FAIRY FAVORS. 

Give me but 

Something whcreunto I may bind my heut; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round. * 

WouLDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom t 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy 

tomb ? 
Drink of this cup ! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought ; 
Drink ! and the spoiler shall pass thee by. 
When the young all scattered L'ke rose leaves lie 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
If the loved had left me, one by one ? 
Take back the cup that may never bless, 
The gift that would make me brotherless. 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ! 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell. 
Over the mighty in air that dwell ? 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep ? 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 

And would not fear, at ray coming, then 
Hush every voice in the homes of men ? 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ? 
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale i 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts oA 

those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose ? 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charmed to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow : 
Look on its flusMng or fading hue. 
And learn if the trusted be false or true ! 

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, 
Though my heart's wealth be but poured w 

dust! 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place, 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile — 
That glory would pass could 1 look on guile f 

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be, 
Favored of spirits ! poured forth on thre ? 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mian 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine. 



64 



6U 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Ihoa art fain with a mortal's lot to rest — 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best ? 

0, give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, 
Rut a human heart where my own may lean ! 



A friend, one tender and faithful friena, 
Whose thoughts' free current with min* ma^ 

blend ; 
And, leaving not either on earth alone. 
Bid the bright, calm close of our li^cs \9 <jn»\ 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS; 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

They tell but dreams — a lonely spirit's dreams j 

Yet ever through their fleeting imagery 

Wanders a vein of melancholy love, 

An aimless thought of home ; as in the song 

Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells ' 

A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers, 

And living streams — far oflT! 



A SIjTRIT'S return. 

« This is to be a mortal, 
Anl seek the things beyond mortality 1 " Manfked. 

Vm voice prevails — dear friend, my gentle 

friend ! 
rhis long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed ; 
A.nd though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed 
Shall its freed waters flow ; then rocks must 

close 
Forevermore above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering 

sound 
Is mingled into harmony profound ; 
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the 

wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, 
The trembling reeds and fountains. Our own 

dell, 
Willi its green dimness ar d ^olian breath, 
Saali suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 
Heju: me in tenderness avid silent faith ! 

rhou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal 

morn — 
I would thou hadst ! — for then my heart on 

thine 
Had poured a worthier love ; now, all o'erworn 
Uy its deep thirst for something too divine, 



It hath but fitful music to bestow. 
Echoes of harpstrings broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, 
As a lone forest bird 'midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; the voices from my horat 
Passed one by one, and melody and mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmun 

fraught. 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And flute note of the wind through cave and 

bower, 
A perilous delight ! — for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood arches or the fountain's biea&t. 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyrt, 
But ministered to that strange inborn fire. 

'Midst the bright silence of the mountain dell^ 
In noontide hours or golden summer eves, 
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swe^ 
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 
Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen 
Thou curtained realm of spirits ! — thus my erj 
Hath troubled air and silence — dost thou lie 
Spread aU around, yet by some filmy screen 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



60- 



Shut from us ever ? The resounding woods, 
Do their depths teem with marvels ? — and the 

floods, 
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 
Have they bright dwellers? — are their lone 

domains 
Peopled with beauty, which may never still 
Our weary thirst of soul ? Cold, weak and cold. 
Is earth's vain language, piercing not one 

fold 
Of our deep being ! O for gifts more high ! 
For a seer's glance to rend mortality ! 
For a charmed rod, to call from each dark 

shrine 
The oracles divine ! 

I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the earth — I woke to love. 

gentle friend ! to love in doubt and woe, 
Shutting the heart the worshipped name above, 
Is to love deeply ; and my spirit's dower 

Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring — with a buried care, 
ind with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer, 
And with a deepening dream, that day by day, 
[n the still shadow of its lonely sway. 
Folded me closer, till the world held nought 
Save the one being to my centred thought. 
There was no music but his voice to hear, 
\o joy but such as with his step drew near ; 
Light was but where he looked — life where he 

moved : 
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 
0, but such love is fearful ! — ■ and I knew 
Its gathering doom : the soul's prophetic sight 
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 
O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light. 
Too sorrowfully clear ! — an undertone 
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 
Whispering of grief. Of grief? — be strong, 

awake ! 
Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul ? 
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 
Death's fastnesses ' — a magic to control 
Worlds far removed ? — from o'er the grave to 

thee 
Love hath made answer ; and thy tale should be 
Sung like a lay of triumph ! Now return 
And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn. 
And lift it once to light ! 

In fear, in pain, 

1 said I loved — but yet a heavenly strain 

Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A icy flashed through the trouble of my dream ! 



I knew myself bt loved ! We breathed hd vcw, 
No mingling visions might our fate aliow, 
As unto happy hearts ; but still and deep, 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave. 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep. 
So jealously ! — a thing o'er which to shed. 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head. 
Lone tears ! yet ofttimcs burdened with thi 

excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But 0, sweet friend ! we dream not of love's 

might 
Till death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! Before that hour. 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering 

power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast 
Shake their clay bars, as with a prisoned blast - 
The sea is in our souls ! 

He died — he died 
On whom my lone devotedness was cast ! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
/, whose wrung heart watched with him to the 

last! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain. 
Nor bathe his parched Hps in the hour of pain. 
Nor say to him, " Farewell ! " He passed av.^ay — 
O, had my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! But thus re- 
moved, 
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding line hath 

proved. 
Joined wdth the unknown, the viewless — he 

became 
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same — 
Changed — hallowed — glorified ! — and his low 

grave 
Seemed a bright mournful altar — mine, aU 

mine : 
Brother and friend soon left me that sole shrine, 
The birthright of the faithful ! — their world's 

wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. O, deem thou 

not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 
My soul grew weak ! I tell thee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip — a fiery shower 
My words were made — a might was given U 

prayer. 
And a strong grasp to passionate despair, 



»08 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



A.nd a dread triumph ! Know'st thou what I 

sought ? 
For what high boon my struggling spirit 

wrought ? 
— Communion with the dead ! I sent a cry 
Through the veiled empires of eternity — 
A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth. 
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high, 
Armed, and inspired, and winged with agony ; 
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 
To bear the heart's blood in their passion stream ; 
I summoned, I adjured ! — with quickened sense, 
With the keen vigil of a life intense. 
I watched, an answer from the winds to wring, 
I listened, if perchance the stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar ; I taught o?ie sound 
Unto a thousand echoes — one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky — 
One prayer to night — "Awake ! appear ! reply !" 
Hast thou been told that from the viewless 

bourn 
The dark way never hath allowed rectum ? 
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled — 
That earthly love is powerless on the dead ? 
Believe it not ! — There is a large lone star 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, 
And under its clear light there lies a spot 
Which well might utter forth — Believe it not ! 

I sat beneath that planet. I had wept 
My woe to stillness ; every night wind slept ; 
A hush was on the hills ; the very streams 
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in 

dreams ; 
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour 
Stood motionless, even as the gray church tower 
Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came 
A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, 
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, 
Flitting through twilight woods, across the air ; 
And I looked up ! O for strong w^ords to bring 
Conviction o'er thy thought ! Before me there, 
He, ■•^he departed, stood ! Ay, face to face. 
Bo near, and yet how far ! His form, his mien, 
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace 
Within. Yet something awfully serene, 
Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that 

wore 
Of the once beating heart no token more ; 
And stillness on the lip — and o'er the hair 
<L gleam, that trembled through the breathless 

air ; 



And an unfathomed calm, that seemed to lie 
In the grave sweetness of th' illumined eye, 
Told of the gulfs between our being set, 
And, as that unsheathed spirit glance I met, 
Made my soul faint : — with /ear ? 0, not witk 

fear ! 
With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 
Ml/ love could be as nothing ! But he spoke -— 
How shall I tell thee of the startUng thrill 
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 
My bosom's infinite ? O friend ! I woke 
Then first to heavenly life ! Soft, solemn, clesTj 
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 
Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose 
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo cells. 
But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill 
Passed from me, like a mist before the morn ; 
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne 
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, 
Possessed my frame. I sought that lighted eye — 
From its intense and searching purity 
I drank in soul ! — I questioned of the dead — 
Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread, 
And I was answered. If remembrance there 
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air ; 
If thought, here piled from many a jewel heap. 
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 
If love, o'ers weeping change, and blight, and 

blast. 
Find there the music of his home at last : 
I asked, and I was answered. Full and high 
Was that communion with eternity — 
Too rich for aught so fieeting ! Like a knell 
Swept o'er my sense its closing words, " Fare- 
well ! 
On earth we meet no more ' " And all was 

gone — 
The pale, bright settled brow — the thiiUing 

tone. 
The still and shining eye ! and nevermore 
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 
That radiant guest ! One full-fraught hour ot 

heaven. 
To earthly passion's \%ild implorings given 
Was made my own — the ethereal fire hath 

shivered 
The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered, 
Ih'ightly, consumingly ! What now is left ? 
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft — 
A void, a chain ! I dwell 'midst throngs, ap^ri 
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart ; 
A fixed immortal shadow stands between 
My spirit and lilc's fast-receding scene : 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



501 



A gift hath severed me from human ties, 
A power is gone from all earth's melodies, 
Viiich never may return : their chords are 

broken, 
The music of another land hath spoken — 
No after sound is sweet I This weary thirst ! 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! 
What here shall quench it ? 

Dost thou not rejoice 
WhMi the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
fhroagh the young woods ? Thou dost ! And 

in that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth. 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness ! Couldst 

thou knoAV 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours but wooes me to the dead ! 
The only beautiful that change no more — 
The only loved ! — the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled ! The dead ! lohom call we so ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapped from us ! Away ! within me 

pent. 
That which is barred from its own element 
Btill droops or struggles ! But the day will 

come — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home ; 
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet 

greets 
The sea at last ; and the winged flower seed meets 
A soil to rest in : shall not /, too, be, 
My spirit love ! upborne to dwell with thee ? 
Yes ! by the power whose conquering anguish 

stirred 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, 
Whose agony of triumph w^on thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, 
Yet shall we meet ! that glimpse of joy divine 
Proved thee forever and forever mine ! 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE.' 

" Courage was cast about her like a dress 
Of solemn comeliness, 
A gathered mind and an untroubled face 
Did give her dangers grace." Donne. 

The war note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France ; 

It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour, 
And the clash of the tourney's lance. 

' Founded on an ui,:ident in the early French hi^toi^. | 



The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the 

night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty laj, 

On the old Provencjal shore. 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath, 

His shroud of armor wore ; 
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and 

came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flama 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of atern forms couched in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly i^ce, 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and speoTf 
As leaders in many a bold career. 
And haughty their stillness looked and high, 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory. 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid. 
Under their banners of battle she prayed ; 
With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of 

love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's portrayed above. 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the graTC 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave ; 
And her fragile frame, at every blast. 
That full of the savage war horn passed. 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part 

So knelt she in her w^oe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
O, they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shei, 

Or the dust had stirred below ! 

Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone 
Through the dash of the sea, through the \s\\di 

wind's moan : 
Is her lord returned with his conquering banosJ 
No ! a breathless vassal before her stands ! 

— "Hast thou been on the field? — Art thoa 

come from the host ? " 

— " From the slaughter, lady ! — All, all is lost ! 
Our banners are taken, our knights, laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim fo^ ; 
And thy lord," his voice took a sadder sound — 
*• Thy lord — he is not on the bloody ground 1 
There are those who tell that the leader** 

plume 
Was seen on the flight through tn' gatlitrinu 
gloom." 



610 



SONGS OF TPIE AFFECTIONS. 



— A change o'er her mien and her spirit passed : 
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 
Bhe dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 
With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 

The proud blood sprang in a Rery flow 

Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow. 

And her young voice rose till the peasant 

shook 
At the thrilling tone and the falcon look : 

— ** r ost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious 

dead, 
And fear not to say that their son hath fled ? 

— Away ! he is hing by lance and shield — 
Feint me the path to his battle field ! " 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine bough. 

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
There's a wail in the stream Kke the dirge of a 

chief ; 
The branches that rock to the tempest strife 
Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral march through the gloomy 

sky; 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long. 
But her frame in the daring of love is strong. 
And her soul as on swelhng seas upborne. 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reached the field of the warrior dead ; 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 
Ay ! bat 07ie word speaks of deeper woe ; 
There lay the loved — on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fettered footstep, no more to come ; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 
And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine 

poured, 
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 
A.nd O, ye beloved of women, farewell ! 

Silently, with lips compressed, 

Pale hands clasped above her breast, 

Stately brow of anguish high, 

Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye ; 

Silently, o'er that red plain. 

Moved the lady 'midst the slain. , 



Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paj-nim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne ; 
And her maidens trembled ; — but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now 
Than the quivering, ere while, of an aspen boug> 
She searched into many an unclosed eye, 
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky ; 
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead Avherethe most hath been dared and done 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled — lead 
on ! " 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turned to a dark and lonely tree 
That waved o'er a fountain red : 

O, swiftest there had the currents free 
From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear heads gleamed, 
And the scattered plumage streamed, 
And the broken shields were tossed, 
And the shivered lances crossed, 
And the mail-clad sleepers rv. and 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last, vaiii 

stand ; 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly changed in that hour had known ; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand graspeti, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped, 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, 
And the face — O, speak not of that dead face ! 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 

She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe - 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death. 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling 

breath ; 
And a proud smile shone e'er her pale despair. 
As she turned to his followers — " Your lord ii 

theie ! 
Look on him ! know hhn by scarf and crest J- 
Bear him away with his sires to rest ! ' 

Another day, another night. 
And the sailor on the deep 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



51j 



Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 
From the lordly chapel sweep. 

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, 

A.S if that rite were in terror done ; 

Ye^ the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling 

power, 
And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour. 

Hurriedly, m fear ana woe. 

Through the aisle the mourners go ; 

"With a hushed and stealthy tread, 

Bearing on the noble dead ; 

Sheathed in armor of the field — 

Only his wan face revealed, 

Whence the still and solemn gleam 

Doth a strange, sad contrast seem 

To the anxious eyes of that pale band. 

With torches wavering in every hand. 

For they dread each moment the shout of 

war, 
And the burst of the Moslem cimeter. 

Th3re is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend. 

No brother of battle, no princely friend : 

No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore, 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provencal chivalry ; 

But one free step, and one lofty heart. 

Bear through that scene to the last their part. 

She hath led the death train of the brave 
To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 
She hath held o'er her spu'it long rigid sway. 
But the struggling passion must now have way. 
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning 

veil. 
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 
The pride on the lip is Hngering still. 
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 
Anguish and triumph are met at strife, 
Rending the cords of her frail young life ; 
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier. 
Lifting her voice, as if death might hear. 
" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong ! 
Now call me hence, by thy side to be, 
The world thou leav'st has no place for me. 
The Ught goes with thee, the joy, the worth — 
Faithful and tender ! O, call me forth ! 
Give me my home on thy noble heart — 
Well have we loved, let us both depart ! " — 
A.nd pale on the breast of the dead she lay, 
The living cheek +0 the cheek of clay ; 



The living cheek ! — O, it was not vain. 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride. 
In death how queen- like — a glorious bride ! 

Joy for the freed one ! — she might not stay 
When the cro^^m had fallen from hei life away , 
She might not linger — a weary thing, 
A dove with no home for its broken wing, 
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, 
That know not its own land's melodies. 
From the long heart withering early gone , 
She hath lived — she hath loved — her task is 
done ! 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO 

"Tableau, ou I'Amour fait alliance arec la Tombe union i» 
doutablc de la mort et de la vie." — IVIadahk dk Staet 

There was music on the midnight 

From a royal fane it rolled ; 
And a mighty bell, each pause between^ 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hushed the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high. 

The lonely bell — of death ! 

There was hurrying through the midnight 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter grew their tread, 

As it neared the minster gate. 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave, 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay 'midst their fretted goxd, 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'!Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill. 

So stone-like was its rest ! 



512 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


But a peal of lordly music 


There is music on the midnight — 


Shook e'en the dust below, 


A requiem sad and slow, 


When the burning gold of the diadem 


As the mourners through the sounding aisle 


Was set on her pallid brow ! 


In dark procession go ; 


I'hen died away that haughty sound ; 


And the ring of state, and the starry crown. 


And from the encircling band 


And all the rich array, 


Stepped piince and chief, 'midst the hush pro- 


Are borne to the house of silence down. 


found. 


With her, that queen of clav ! 


With homage to her hand. 




1 


And tearlessly and firmly 


Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 


King Pedro led the train ; 


Over each martial frame. 


But his face was wrapped in his folding robe 


Afi one by one, to touch that hand, 


When they lowered the dust again. 


Noble and leader came? 


'Tis hushed at last the tomb above — 


Was not the settled aspect fair ? 


Hymns die, and steps depart : 


Did not a queenly grace, 


Who called thee strong as Death, Love ? 


Under the parted ebon hair, 


Mightier thou wast and art. 


Sit on the pale still face ? 




Death ! Death ! canst thou be lovely 




Unto the eye of life ? 




Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 


ITALIAN aiK-T/rt HYMN TO PHFi 


With thy cold mien at strife ? 


VIRGIN, 


— It was a strange and fearful sight, 


" sanctissiir-i, O ponsaioK.! 


The crown upon that head, 


Dulcis Virgo Maria I 


The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 
AU gathered round the dead ! 


Mater amata, mtemerata, 
Ora, ora pro nobis " 

SICILIAN MaRIKER'8 liTKH 


And beside her stood in silence 


In the deep hour of dreams, , 


1 One with a brow as pale. 


Through the dark woods, and past the moaning 


And white lips rigidly compressed, 


sea, 


Lest the strong heart should fail : 


And by the starlight gleams, 


King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 


Mother of sorrows ! lo, I come to thee ! 


Watching the homage done 




By the land's flower and chivalry 


Unto thy shrine I bear 


To her, his martyred one. 


Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to 
lie 
All, all unfolded there, 


But on the face he looked not 


Which once his star had been ; 


Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 


To every form his glance was turned 




Save of the breathless queen : 


For thou, that once didst move 


Though something, won from the grave's em- 


In thy stiU beauty through an early home — 


brace. 


Thou know'st the grief, the love, 


Of her beauty still was there, 


The fear of woman's soul — to thee I come I 


Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 




It was not for him to bear. 


Many, and sad, and deep 




Were the thqughts folded in thy silent breast ; 


Alas ! the crown, the sceptre. 


Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 


The treasures of the earth. 


Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart oppressed 1 


And the priceless love that poured those gifts, 




Alike of wasted worth ! 


There is a wandering bark 


The rites are close i — bear back the dead 


Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave : 


Unto the chamber deep ! 


0, let thy soft eye mark 


[iay down again the royal head, 


His course ! Be with him, holiest ! guide and 


Dust with the dust to sleep ! 


save ! 



SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ou 


My soul is on that way ; 


Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 


My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters 


Thrilled through the tempest of the parting 


dim ; 


strife, 


Through the long weary day 


Like a faint breeze : 0, from that music flown, 


I walk, o'ershadowed by vaiii dreams of him. 


Send back one sound, if love's be quenchle*»i 
life! 

But once, 0, answer me ! 


Aid him — and me, too, aid ! 


0, 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess ! 




On thy weak child is laid 


In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, 


lh3 burden of too deep a tenderness. 


In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 




deep, 


Too mucn o'er him is poured 


When the heart's phantoms from the darkness 


My being's hope — scarce leaving heaven a part ; 


rush, 


Too fearfully adored, 


Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep - 


0, make not him the chastener of my heart ! 


Spirit ! then answer me ! 


I tremble with a sense 


By the remembrance of our blended prayei , 


Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low — 


By all our tears, whose mingling made them 


Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 


sweet ; 


rhis wild idolatry must end in woe. 


By our last hope, the victor o'er despair — 




Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 


The troubled joy of life. 


Answer me, answer me ! 


Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 




And, worn with feverish strife, 


The grave is silent : and the far-off sky. 


Would fold its wings : take back, take back 


And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone ' 


thine own ! 


0, if thy buried love make no reply, 




What voice has earth ? Hear, pity, speak, mint 


Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 


own ! 


The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave — 


Answer me, answer me I 


Hope of the sailor's eye, 




And maiden's heart, bless'd mother ! guide and 




save. 


THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LCVE. 


TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 


•» For all his wildness and proud fantasies, 
I love him." Crolt. 


From the bright stars, or from the viewless air. 


Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet thf 


Or from some world unreached by human 


chamois bounds. 


thought, 


Thy heart is where the mountain fir shakes to 


Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 


the torrent sounds ; 


And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 


And where the snow peaks gleam like stars, 


> Answer me, answer me ! 


through the stillness of the air, 




And where the Lauwine's ' peal is heard — hunt- 


Have we not communed here of life and death ? 


er ! thy heart is there ! 


Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 




Was not to perish as a rose's breath. 


I know thou lov'st me well, dear friend ! but 


To melt away, like song from festal bowers ? 


better, better far 


Answer, 0, answer me ! 


Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with 




rocks and storms at war ; 


Thine eye's last light was mine — the soul that 


In the green, sunny vales with me thy spirit 


shone 


would but pine — 


Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 


And yet I will be thine, my love ! xad yet I 


Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown 


will be thine ! 


Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze ? 




Hear, hear, and answer me ! 


1 Lauwine, the avalanclM^ 



514 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And I will not seek to woo thee do^-n from 

those thy native heights, 
With the sweet song, our land's ovm. song, of 

pastoral delights ; 
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is 

not as mine — 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I 

will be thine. 

And I wiU leave my blessed home, my father's 

joyous hearth, 
"With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth. 
With all the kind and laughing eyes that in its 

firelight shine. 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou 

art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad 

free heart 
That I cast away for thee —for thee, all reckless 

as thou art ! 
With tremblings and with vigils lone I bind 

myself to dwell — 
Yet, yet I would not change that lot ; O, no ! I 

love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so 
wild as thou, 

With that bright restlessness of eye, that tame- 
less fire of brow ! 

Mournful ! — but dearer far I call its mingled 
fear and pride. 

And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 
earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath, 
To watch through long, long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dream of death, 
Ta wake in doubt and loneliness — this doom I 

know is mine ; 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I 

will be thine ! 

Tha 1 may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last. 
Chat I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er 

each danger past, 
That 1 may kneel and pray for thee, and win 

thee aid divine — 
For this I will be thine, my love ! for this I will 

be thine ! 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHlUi 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with my dead ; 
In the darkness of the forest boughs 

A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 

As by mighty wings upborne ; 
The mountain eagle hath not plumes 

So strong as love and scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave sod. 
By the white man's path defiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have asked the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place 
Where the stately footsteps of the free 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer — 
" Go, bring us back thine own ! " 

And the streams from all the hunters' hills 
Rushed with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chainless host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead, 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

I have left the spoiler's dwellings 

Forevermore behind : 
Unmingled with their household sounds 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearthfires, 

I watched my child's decay, 
Uncheered I saw the spirit light 

From his young eyes fade away. 



1 An Indian, who had established himself in a trivnami. 
of Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced 
towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on tht 
death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards 
dug up the body of iiis child, and carried it with him tw« 
hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian In- 
dians. — See Tudor^s Letters on the Eastern States of Amm 



SOXGS OF TUP AFFECTIOXS. 



5U 



When his head sank on my bosom, 
Wlien the death sleep o'er him fell, 

Was there one to say, " A friend is near ! " 
Tliere was none ! — pale race, farewell ! 

To the forests, to the cedars, 

To the warrior and his bow, 
Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, 

I bear thee s^**mbering now ! 

I bear thee unto burial 

With the mighty hunters gone ; 
I shall hear thee in the forest breeze, 

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son ! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead ; 
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet, 

My fathers' path I tread. 



.50NG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on the cMming sea, 
A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 
Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there. 
Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 
Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new, 
It sang, while the bark through the surges 
flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone, 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

" Away, away o'er the foaming main ! " 
This was the free and the jo^'-ous strain, 
" There are clearer skies than ours, afar. 
We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath 



And whose wealth is all for the first brave 
guest." 

" But, alas ! that we should go," 
Sang the farewell voices then, 

" From the homesteads, warm and low, 
By the brook and in the glen ! " 

' We will rear new homes under trees that glow 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its sha low at day's decline ; 



And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and stiU 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard trees. 

Where first our children played 
'Midst the birds and honey bees ! 

" All, all our own shall the forests be, 
As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 
None shall say, * Hither, no farther pass ! ' 
We will track each step through the wavt 

grass, 
We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night.' 

•• But O, the gray church tower, 
And the sound of Sabbath bell, 

And the sheltered garden bo^er, 
We have bid them all farewtll ! 

•' We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory vidth mounts an<^ 

floods, 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore 
Where the Indians' graves lay alone before." 

"But who shall teach the flowers. 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 

Home, home and friends, farewell ! " 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.' 

" If I could see him, it were well with me I " 

Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 

There were lights and sounds of revelling iu 

the vanquished city's halls. 
As by night the feast of victory was held with 

in its walls ; 
And the conquerors fiUed the wine cup higl 

after years of bright blood shed 5 
But their lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst th« 

triumph wailed the dead. 

i The grief of Ferdinand, Kin? of Arragon, for the loss 
of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the sieg< 
of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana 
It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Pallads ir 
Lockhart's beautiful collection. 



516 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



He looked down from the fortress won, on the 

tents and flowers below, 
rhe moo ilit sea, the torchlit streets — and a 

glcom came o'er his brow : 
Fhe voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

atterly alone. 

Ajid he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou 

city of the sea ! 
But O, what portion of delight is mine at last 

in thee ? — 
I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roU, 
And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

" My brother ! O my brother ! thou art gone — 

the true and brave. 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon 

thy grave. 
There are many round my throne to stand, and 

to march where I lead on 5 
There was one to love me in the world — my 

brother ! thou art gone ! 

'* In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean tem- 
pest's wrath, 

We stood together, side by side — one hope was 
ours, one path ; 

Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, 
thou hast fenced me with thy breast, 

Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain — 
O, bravest heart, and best ! 

^ I see the festive lights around, — o'er a dull, 

sad world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where 

is thine f 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit 

found reply ! — 
brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my 
glory and my sway, 

^nd chiefs to lead them fearlessly — my frietid 
hath passed away ! 

For the kindly look, the word of cheer my 
heart may thirst in vain ; 

Knd the face that was as light to mine — it can- 
not come again ! 



" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, tin 

offering for a crown ,- 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, 1 

have purchased cold renown ; 
How often will my weary heart 'midst the soiinds 

of triumph die. 
When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flowei 

of chivalry ! 

" I am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is eren 

as death ! 
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the 

battle trumpet's breath : 
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 

banner wave — 
But where art thou, my brother ? where ? In 

thy low and earlj-^ grave ! " 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through 

that victorious night, 
And faster flowed the red wine forth, by the 

stars' and torches' light : 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard 

the conqueror's moan — 
" My brother ! O my brother ! best and bravest ! 

thou art gone ! " 



THE RETURN. 

** Hast thou come with the heart of thy child- 
hood back ; 
The free, the puife, the kind ? " 
— So murmured the trees in my homeward 
track, 
As they played to the mountain wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ? " 

Whispered my native streams ; 
*• Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove 

Still revered its first high dreams?" 

'• ITnst thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 
Of the child in his parent halls ? " 

Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, 
From the old ancestral walls. 

"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithtu 
dead, 

^^^l0se place of rest is nigh ? 
W^ith the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 

With the mother's trusting eye ? ' 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 61 


Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 


Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek. 


As I answ^ered — ** ye shades ! 


My spirit they detain ; 


i bring not my childhood's heart again 


I know that from thine agony 


To the freedom of your glades. 


Is wrung that burning rain. 




Best ! kindest ! weep not — make the panji 


'« I have turned from my first pure love a^ide, 


The bitter conflict less — 


bright and happy streams ! 


0, sad it is, and yet a joy, 


Light after light, in my soul have died 


To feel thy love's excess ! 


The dayspring's glorious dreams. 






But calm thee ! let the thought of death 


'« And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath 


A solemn peace restore ! 


passed — 


The voice that must be silent soon 


The prayer at my mother's knee ; 


Would speak to thee once more, 


Darkened and troubled I come at last, 


That thou mayst bear its blessing on 


Home of my boyish glee ! 


Through years of after life — 




A token of consoling love. 


'» But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 


Even from this hour of strife. 


To soften and atone ; 




Ind 0, ye scenes of those blessed years, 


I bless thee for the noble heart. 


T^ftV shall make me again your own." 


The tender and the true, 




Where mine hath found the happiest 
rest 
That e'er fond woman's knew ; 






I bless thee, faithful friend and guide ! 
For my own, my treasured share 


THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.» 


•• C'lMp me a little longer on the brink 


In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 


Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 


In thy sorrow, in thy prayer 


And when this heart hath ceased to beat, O, think — 


And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — 




That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 


I bless thee for kind looks and words 


And friend to more than human friendship just. 
0, by that retrospect of happiness. 


Showered on my path like dew, 


And by the hopes of an immortal trust. 


For all the love in those deep eyes, 


God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust" 
Gertrude of Wtomiso. 


A gladness ever new ! 




For the voice which ne'er to mine r* 


Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 


plied 


Thy look is in my heart, 


But in kindly tones of cheer ; 


rhy bosom is my resting-place, 


For every spring of happiness 


And yet I must depart. 


My soul hath tasted here ! 


Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 




Too precious is its chain, 


I bless thee for the last rich boon 


All "woven of thy love, dear friend. 


Won from afl"ection tried — 


Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 


The right to gaze on death with thee, 




To perish by thy side ! 


Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 


And yet more for the glorious hope 


Thou seest my lifeblood flow — 


Even to these moments given — 


Bow to the Chastener silently, 


Did not t/uj spirit ever lift 


And calmly let me go I 


The trust of mine to heaven ? 


A little while betAveen our hearts 




The shadowy gulf must lie. 


Now be thou strong ! O, knew we not 


Yet have we for their communing 


Our path must lead to this ? 


Still, still eternity ! 


A shadow and a trembling stUl 




Were mingled with our bliss ! 




We plighted our young heai'ts when ptonni 


1 The wife of a Var.dois leader, .n one of tho attarxs 
inade on the Protestant hamlets, received a monal wound, 


Were dark upon tne sky, 


and di-d in her husband's arms, exhorting him to courage 


In full, deep knowledge of their task 


\Mi endurance. 


To sufl'er and to die ! 



4l8 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Be strong ! I leav 3 the living voice 

Of this, my mai tyred blood, 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

With the torrent's foaming flood — 
A. spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air. 
To rouse the valiant from repose. 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Ay, joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must be altars yet. 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipped still 

With the worship of the free : 
Farewell ! — there's but owe pang in death, 

One only — leaving thee ! 



THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW. 

" All my pretty ones I 
Did you say all ? 



Let U8 make medicine of this great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief I " Macbeth. 

My battle vow ! — no minster walls 

Gave back the burning word, 
Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone 

Of smothered vengeance heard : 
But the ashes of a ruined home 

Thrilled as it sternly rose. 
With the mingling voice of blood that shook 

The midnight's dark repose. 

I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 

But where my children lay. 
And the startled vulture at my step 

Soared from their precious clay. 
I stood amidst my dead alone — 

I kissed their lips — I poured, 
In the strong silence of that hour, 

My spirit on my sword. 

The roof tree fallen, the smouldering floor. 

The blackened threshold stone, 
The bright hair torn, and soiled with blood. 

Whose fountain w-as my own — 
These, and the everlasting hills. 

Bore witness that wild night ; 
Before them rose th' avenger's soul 

In crushed affection's might. 



If from my heart the fiery vow, 

Seared on it then, could fade. 
They have no cause ! Go, ask the streams 

That by my paths have swept. 
The red waves that unstained were born — 

How hath my faith been kej »t ? 

And other eyes are on my soul, 

That never, never close. 
The sad, sweet glances of the lost — 

They leave me no repose. 
Haunting my night watch 'midst the rocks, 

And by the torrent's foam. 
Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, 

Full, full of love and home ! 

Alas ! the mountain eagle's heart, 

When wronged, may yet find rest i 
Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks another nest. 
But I — your soft looks wake the thirst 

That wins no quenching rain ; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful I 

To the stormy fight again. 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE. 

" Thither where he lies buried I 
That single spot is the whole world to me.' 

CoLKBiDOE's " "Wallenstein." 

Thy voice was in my soul ! it called me on ; 

O my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul. 
From the cold, faded world whence thou ai^ 
gone. 
To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come ! I come ! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 

We loved ! — O, still I know that atill we love j 
I have left all things witn thy dust to d'A-ell, 
Though thep.e dun wisles in dreams of thee ta 
rovB : 

Thli^ is my home ! 

Speak to me m the thrilling minster's gloom ! 
Speak ! thou hast died, and sent me no fare^ 
w^ll ! 
/ will -ot shrink — O, mighty is the tomb, 
rJuc one thing mightier, which it cannot quell— 
This woman's heart ! 



The stars, the searching stars of heave v. 
With keen looks would upbraid 



11' is lone, in^^, A-n2;ilc heart ! — the st^ro.ig p.lone 
In love and grief — of both the bm-mng snrine 



iSONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



5U 



rhou, mv soul's friend ! Avitb grief hast surely- 
done, 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine, 
Say, couldst thou part ? 

I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 
The wind's low singing through the fretted 
stone 
I hear not ihee ; and yet I feel thee near — 
What is tl '8 bound that keeps thee from thine 
own? 

Breathe it away. 

I wait thee — I adjure thee ! Hast thou known 
How I have loved thee ? couldst thou dream 
it all ? 
\jn I not here, with night and death alone. 
And fearing not ? And hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway ? 

Thou canst not come ! or thus I should not weep ! 

Thy love is deathless — but no longer free ! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Soon, soon, and fast ! 

But I shall come to thee ! our souls' deep dreams. 

Our young affections, have not gushed in 

vain ; 

Boon in one tide shall blend the severed streams. 

The worn heart break its bonds — and death 

and pain 

Be with the pa? 



THE SISTERS 01' SCIO. 

• Ab are our hearts, our way is one, 
And cannot be liivided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'ercoineth all things. 
Will I not live with thee ? will I not cheer thee ? 
"Wouldst thou be lonely then ? wouldst thou be sad?" 

Joanna Baillie. 

'• Sister, sM'eet sister ! let me weep a while ! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way ! 
thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle. 

Come as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heaJt dies with yearnings and sick fears — 
0, could my life melt from me in these tears ! 

* Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye, 
Our brother's bounding step — where are they, 
where ? 

Oftsolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 
— Ho vv hast thou won thy spirit from despair ? 



O'er mine swift shadows gusts of terror, sweep 
I smk away — bear with me — let mo weep ! " 

" Yes ! weep my sister ! weep, till from thy heail 
The weight flow forth in tears ; yet sink thou 
not. 

I bind my sorry to a lofty part, 

For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan Jet 

To meet in quenchless trust. My soul is strong ; 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 

•* A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our oli victorious dead — 

These mantle me M'ith power ; and though theii 
fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed, 

Yet shall they light us onward, side by side — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ' 

"Cheer then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image -— in whose voice a tone, 

A faint, sweet sound of hers is lingering yet. 
An echo of our childhood's music gone. 

Cheer thee ! thy sister's heart and faith are high 

Our path is one — with thee I live and die ! " 

[" But who are they that sit, mourning in their loveliness 
beneath the shadow of a rock on the surf-beaten shole.'' 

The Sisters of Scio by Felicia Dorothea Heinans 

sung. Die — rather let them die in famine amongst sea 
sand shells, than ere their virgin charms be polluted in the 
harem of the barbarian who has desolated their native isle. 
Bowed down and half dead, beneath what a load of anguish 
hangs the orphan's dishevelled head on the knee of a sister, 
in pensive resignation, and holy faith triumplant over de- 
spair, as Felicia happily singeth ! " — Professor Wiuoit, 
Blackwood'' s Magazine. Dec. 1829.] 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

[The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, 
having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the releaM 
of his fitther, the Count Saldaria, who had been imprisoned 
by King Alfonso of Aslurias, almost from the time of Ber- 
nardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war 
which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men 
of the land gathered round the king, and united in demand- 
ing Saldaiia's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Ber- 
nardo immediate possession of his father's person in ex- 
change for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesita- 
tion, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives; and 
being assured that his father was then on his way from pris- 
on, rode forth with the king to meet him. " And when he 
saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient 
chronicle, " ' O God ! is the Count of Saldana indeed crm- 
ing." — 'Look where he is,' replied the cruel king; 'and 
now go and greet him whom you have so lor.g desired tc 
see.' " The remainder of the story will be found related ii 
the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearlf 
in the dark as to Bernardo's history ».fter this event | 



fi20 



SONGS OF THE AF /SECTIONS. 



The warrior bowed Ms crested head, and tamed 
liis heart of fire, 

A.nd sued the haughty king to free his long- 
imprisoned sire : 

" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 
captive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — O, 
break my father's chain ! " 

*♦ Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran- 
somed man this day . 

IRLOunt thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 
him on his way." 

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 
his steed, 

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 
foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came 

a glittering band. 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a 

leader in the land ; 
•' Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he. 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned 

30 long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, 

his cheek's blood came and went ; 
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, 

and there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 

he took — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery 

spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped 

from his like lead : 
He looked up to the face above — the face was 

of th 5 dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fixed and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them 

wa% no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but 

who iould paint that gaze ? 
They hiL«fhed their very hearts, that saw its 

hoiror and amaze ; 
rhey might have chained him, as before that 

stony form he stood, 
^01 the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his lijr the blood. 



" Father ! " at length he murmured low, and 

wept Hke childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and zdl his 

young renown — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sat down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved handa hia 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, '* to lift 

the sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my fathei 

— O, the worth. 
The glory and the loveliness, are passed away 

from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire ! beside thee yet — 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for 

thee my fields were won — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son ! " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein. 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the 
courtier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear- 
ing war horse led. 

And sternly set them face to face — the king 
before the dead ! — 

♦* Came I not forth upon thy pied^'e, my father's 

hand to kiss ? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell 

me what is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart 1 sought — give 

answer, where are they ? — 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured s>oul, send 

life through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light Be still I 

keep down thine ire — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak this 

earth is not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 

my blood was shed — 
Thou canst not — and a king! His duit b« 

mountains on thy head ! " 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



6m 



He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell — upon 

the silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look — then 

turned from that sad place : 
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in 

martial strain — 
His banner led the spears no more amidst the 

M'is of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS. 

" To a mysteriously c Ansorted pair 
This place is conseei.ite; to death and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction." Wordsworth. 

[At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as burst- 
ing from the sepulchre, with her infant in her ai /ns, at the 
sound of the last trumpet An inscription on the tomb con- 
cludes thus: " Here am I, O God! with the child whom 
thou hast given me."] 

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
O bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither ! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year, 
Plu Tked on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 
Hopes from their source all holy, though of earth, 
All brightly gathering round aflection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told ; of Sabbath hours ; 

Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meet- 
ing ; 

Of childhood's voice, amidst the household 
bowers ; 

And bounding step, and smile of joyous greet- 
ing ; — 

But thou, young mother ! to thy gentle heart 

Didst take the babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is 

past ; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's 

blast. 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking ? 
Ihou hear'st, thou answer' st, ** God of earth and 

heaven ! 
Here am I, with the child "vhom thou hast 

given ! " 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE. 

" Fear no more the heat of the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages." CrHBKLiHC 

[" I attended a funeral where there were a number uf tb, 

German settlers present. After I had performed such ser 
vice as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-look 
ing old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing 
that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. H« 
opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they 
all began to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed 
the strain. There was something affecting in the singing 
of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his 
last home, and using the language and rites which they had 
brought with them over the sea from the Faterland, a word 
which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, 
and mournful air, which they sung as they bore tJie body 
along: the words ' mein Gott,' 'mem Bruder,'' and 'Fatcr 
land,'' died away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I 
shall long remember that funeral hymn." — Flint's Recul 
lections of the Valley of the JYIississippi.] 

There went a dirge through the forest's gloom 
— An exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 

«• Brother ! " (so the chant was sung 
In the slumberer's native tongue,) 
<• Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be 
Long the exile's woe hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine own blue streams 
Wander'd through thy fever dreams ; 
Voices from thy country's vines 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines ; 
And thy true heart died away, 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

So swelled the chant ; and the deep wind « 

moan 
Seemed through the cedars to murmur — •* Gothj * 

•' Brother ! by the rolling Rhine 
Stands the home that once was thin^ '. 
Brother ! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blessed thine infant head 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee played 
Rest bcaeath their own oak shade, 
Far, far hence ! — yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brotner ! part ye ra jre ; 
God hath called thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland 1 " 



622 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONb. 

1 


" The Fathenand !" — with that sweet word 


AAvake ! they sadden me — those early tears, 


A. burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard. 


First gushings of the strong, dark river's flovr. 




That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming year*. 


*♦ Brother ! were we there Avith thee 


Th' unfathomable flood of human woe ! 


Rich would many a meeting be ! 




Many a broken garland bound, 


A\\^ul to watch, even rolling through a dream, 


Many a mourned and lost one found ! 


Forcing wild spraydrops but from childhood'^ 


But our task is still to bear, 


eyes ! 


Still to breathe in changeful air ; 


Wake, wake ! as yet itAy life's transparent stream | 


Loved and bright things to resign. 


Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 


As even now this dust of thine ; 




Yet to hope ! — to hope in heaven. 


Come from the shadow of those realms un- 


Though flowers fall, and ties be riven — 


known. 


Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 


Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling 


Beckoning to the Fatherland ! " 


rove; 




Come to the kindly regi6n all thine own, 


A-nd the requiem died in the forest's gloom ; 


The home still bright for thee with guardiar 


They had reached the exile's lonely tomb. 


love. 




Happy, fair child ! that yet a mother's voice 




Can win thee back from visionary strife ! — 


THE DREAMING CHILD. 


0, shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice, 




Start from the dream-like wilderness of life ? 


-Alag! what kind of grief should thy years know? 




Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 




When no breath troubles them." 




Beaumont and Fletcher. 




And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy ? 


THE CHARMED PICTURE. 


What should the cloud be made of ? Blessed 




child ! 


" that those lips had language ! Life hath passed 


Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy. 


With me but roughly since I saw thee last." Cowpbk. 


All day hath ranged through sunshine clear, yet 




mild : 


Thine eyes are charmed — thine earnest eye« - 




Thou image of the dead ! 


And now thou tremblest ! — wherefore ? — in 


A spell within thy sweetness lies. 


thy soul 


A virtue thence is shed. 


There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard 




No sound of presage from the distance roll, 


Oft in their meek blue light enshrined 


Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word. 


A blessing seems to be. 




And sometimes there my wayward mind 


From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young 


A still reproach can see : 


eye 
Hath looked not into death's, and thence be- 


And sometimes pity — soft and deep, 


come 


And quivering through a tear ; 


A questioner of mute eternity, 


Even as if love in heaven could weep 


A weary searcher for a viewless home : 


For grief left drooping here. 


Nor hath thy sense been quickened unto pain 


And 0, my spirit needs that balm ! 


By feverish watching for some step beloved : 


Needs it 'midst fitful mirth ! 


Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train. 


And in the night hour's haunted calm, 


Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 


And by the lonely hearth. 


Vet now, on billows of strange passion tossed, 


Look on me thus, when hollow praiflft 


How art thou wilderod in the cave of sleep ! 


Hath made the weary pine 


My gentle child ! 'midst what dim phantoms lost, 


For one true tone of other days, 


Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep ? 


One glance of love like tliine ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



61< 



Look on me thus, when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be free, 

As bursts of skylark song. 

''n vain, in vain ! — too soon are felt 

The wounds they cannot flee : 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pou"ing my soul on thee ! 

Sw«et face, that o'er my childhood shone ! 

Whence is thy power of change, 
Thus ever shadowing back my own. 

The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charmed — those earnest eyes ? 

— I know the mystery well ! 
[n mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Df Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis bom — 

O, change no longer, thou ! 
Forever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



PARTING WORDS. 

*• One struggle more, and I am free."— Btron. 

Leave me ! O, leave me ! Unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou mak'st those mortal regions, whence I go, 
Too mighty in their loveliness. Farewell, 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound. 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 
Wakfis in my soul a feeling too profound. 
Too strong, for aught that loves and dies, to 
bear— 

O, bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 
Ihou bidd'st the peace, the reverential hush. 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart : 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye. 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings vdth sea, and hill, and sky — 
0, lake that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 



Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 
Let not the joy of bird notes pierce tne gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 

Too much — and death is here I 

Doth our ovra spring make happy music now» 
From the old beech roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus c&a 
stray 

From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching 

sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strengt' away ! 

Leave me ! — thou com'st between my heart ani 

Heaven ; 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! — 
Why must our souls thus love, and then be rivCL I 
Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
O, yet a while delay ! 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 

Thou'rt passing hence, my brother ! 

O my earUest friend, farewell ! 
Thou'rt heaving me, "vvithout thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the heart*. 

And from the household tree. 
With thee departs the lingering mirth. 

The brightness goes with thee.^ 

But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
WTiere the dirge-hke tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

1 " Messages from the living to the dead are not unu. 
mon in the Highlands. The Gaels have snch a ceast'.bn 
consciousness of immortality, that their dej^irted frien.la am 
considered as mercl}- absent for a time, and {>erniitted to re 
lieve the hours of separation by occasional intercourse wiMi 
the objects of their earliest affections." — See the Notbw U 
Mrs. Brunton's Works. 



S24 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIOxn'S. 



Tell, then, our Mend of boyhood 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Passed like a swift, bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee, 
Are on me still — O, still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And iell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is filled 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet. 

And tell our white-haired father, 

That in the paths he trode. 
The child he loved, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother, 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth. 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and bright will see ! — 
O brother, brother ! may I dwell, 

Ere long, with them and thee ! 



THE TWO HOMES. 

"O, if the soul immortal be, 
Is not its love immortal too ? " 

Seest thou my home ? 'Tis where yon woods 

are waving. 
In their dark richness, to the summer air, 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower banks 

laving, 
Leads dowTi the hUls a vein of light — 'tis there ! 

'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 

gleaming, 
Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies ! 
My boyliood's haunt, through days of summer 

dreaming, 
Hnder young leaves that shook with melodies 



My home ! The spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that blows across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back 

There am I loved — there prayed for — ther« 

my mother 
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 
There my young sisters watch to greet theil 

brother — 
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blend- 
ing, 

All the home voices meet at day's decline ; 

One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, 

There laughs my home — sad stranger I whew 
is thine ? 

Aslc'st thou of mine ? In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
'Tis where /, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — but where are 
they? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwell- 
ing ; 
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with tha 

loving 
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving. 
That witii the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicmg son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to tht household scene I 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — but dark seas roll be' ween. 



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH BED. 

" Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergehtl da ich noch ein bQb« 
war — war's mein Lieblingsgedanke, wic sie zu leben, wie sie m 
sterbcnl" Die K>.vpkb 

Like thee to die, thou sun ! — My boyhood's dreani 
Was this ; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 
Bcais back upon me, with a torrent'? power. 
Nature's deep longings. O for some kind eye 
Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell fraze j 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



52« 



Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 
Some voice, to speak of home and better days. 
Beyond the pass of shadows ! But I go, 
I that have been so loved, go hence alone 5 
And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's 

glow. 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone, 
E'an in this moment, with your laughing glee. 
Mingles its cadence wliile you speak of me — 
Of me, your s^^ldier, 'midst the mountains lying. 
Or the red banner of his battles dying, 
Far, far away ! And O, your parting prayer — 
Will not his name be fondly murmured there ? 
It will ! — A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its 

mirth. 
Mother ! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear 

head 
Blessing and love a thoMsand fold be shed, 
My soul's last earthly breathings ! May your 

home 
Smile for you ever ! May no winter come. 
No world, between your hearts ! May e'en your 

tears. 
For my sake, full of long-remembered years, 
Quicken the true affections that intwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 
Over my slumbers ; yet your love will keep 
My memory living in th' ancestral halls. 
Where shame hath never trod. The dark night 

falls. 
And I depart. The brave are gone to rest, 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reaped : — their work is 

done — 
Thouy too, art set ! — farewell, farewell, thou 

sun ! 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 



TO 



" True, indeed, it is, • 

That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past — 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
l8 undergone." Wordsworth. 

" The love where death hath set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

iJor falsehood disavow." BvKOX. 



I CALL thee blessed ! — though now the vo c< 

be fled 
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with iti 

tone. 
And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine but Ught was 

thrown 

Far through thy breast : 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord since he is gone — 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee blessed ! 

For in thy heart t*here is a holy spot, 
As 'raid the waste an isle of fount and palm, 
Forever green ! — the world's breath enters not, 
The passion tempests may not break its calm ; 
'Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust xmbaffled, mayst thou turn 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eye? 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory, lieft 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home! — there is no power ir 

change 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway, 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hushed air ! 

And O, that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! I call thee blessed, 
K only there. 

Blessed, for the beautiful within thee dwelling 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 
A sj)ring of purer life, still freshly welling. 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dreaao. 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love, 
The rainbow still unreached, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off" to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the eartn 
Singled and marked, hast known its home anc 
place ; 



526 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Ad i the high memory of its holy worth 
To this our life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 
Thou art ! — the love his spirit bore away 
Was not for death ! — a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 
Tliine still in heaven ! 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

" And ireams, in their development, have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make us what we were not— what they will. 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by." 

Bteon, 

SPIRIT land ! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have 

birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 

and go 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair — even as Eden fair : 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see. 
The eyes whose love hath been life to me : 



They are there — and each blessed voice I hew 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear ; 
But undertones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! *' 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, Like an omen, breathes fain 

through the lay, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt way ! " 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 

All the home faces are met by the blaze, — 

And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet 

say, 
"It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'ti« 

gone. 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
O, a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices ! where are ye, where i 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams. 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me bum 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er re- 
turn ! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright, 
From the world o'er the grave take thy solemn 

light, 
And O, with the loved whom no more 1 see, 
Show me my home, as yet it may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, 
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 
So my soul may bear on through the long, long 

day, 
TiU I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTOi 

" Where hath not woman stood 
Strong in affection's might ? a reed, uptwme 
By an o'ermastering current I " 

Gentle and lovely form ! 

What didst thou here. 
When the fierce battle storm 

Bore down the spear "> 



Banner and shivered crest, 
Beside thee strewn, 



SONGS OF Till 


S AFFECTIOXS. 6} 


ItU that amidst the best 


And the rich locks, whose glow 


li y work was done ! 


Death cannot tame ; — 


Yet flviangely, sadly fair, 


Only one thought, one power, 


O'ei the wild scene 


Thee could have led. 


Gleams, through its golden hair, 


So, through the tempest's hour, 


That Lrow serene. 


To lift thy head ! 


Low lies the stately head, — 


Only the true, the strong. 


Earth uuund the free ; 


The love, whose trust 


How gave those haughty dead 


Woman's deep soul too long 


A place iy thee ? 


Pours on the dust ! 


Slumberei \ Jiine early bier 




Friends should have crowned, 
Many a flowfei and tear 


THE DESERTED HOUSE. 


Shedding ai .>and ; — 


Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth. 




silent house ! once filled with mirth , 


Soft voices, cle&/ and young. 


Sorrow is in the breezy sound 


Mingling then swell, 
Should o'er thy axx^t have sung 


Of thy tall poplars whispering round 


Earth's last fare'<v>jll ; — 


The shadow of departed hours 




Hangs dim upon thine early flowers , 


Sisters, above the gntre 


E'en in thy sunshine seems to brood 


Of thy repose, 


Something more deep than solitude. 


Should have bid violets wave 




With the white rose. 


Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 




Mine own sweet home of other days ! 


Now must the trumpet's note, 


My children's birthplace ! — yet for me 


Savage and shrill, 


It is too much to look on thee. 


For requiem o'er thee float. 




Thou fair and still ! 


Too much ! for all about thee spread, 




I feel the memory of the dead, 


And the swift charger sweep 


And almost linger for the feet 


In full career, 


That nevermore my step shall meet. 


Trampling thy place of sleep — 




Why cam'st thou here ? 


The looks, the smiles, all vanished now, 




Follow me where thy roses blow ; 


Why ? Ask the true heart why 


The echoes of kind household words 


Woman hath been 


Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 


Ever where brave men die, 




Unshrinking seen. 


Till my heart dies, it dies away 




In yearnings for what might not stay 


Unto this harvest ground 


For love which ne'er deceived my trviist 


Proud reapers came, — 


For all which went with " dust to dust S. ' ' 


8:>me, for that stirring sound, 




A warrior's name ; — 


What now is left me, but to raise 




From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze. 


Some for the stormy play 


To lift through tears my straining eye 


And joy of strife ; 


Up to my Father's house on high ? 


And some to fling away 


J 


A weary life ; — 


0, many are the mansions there,' 




But not in one hath grief a share ! 


Bat thou, pale sleeper ! thou 
With the slight frame. 


1 '' III my Fatlier's house are many mansiona." 

John^ chao. x^ 



528 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



No haunting shade from things gone by- 
May there o'ersweep th' unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-ioved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread } 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,* 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But, by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore 
The severed wreath is bound once more ! 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me, like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart ! O, wound it not ! 
A. yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think' st the vine's low rustliaig leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is wdth his own. 

Thou think' st thy children's laughing play 
A IcTjly sight at faU of day ; 
T/ien are the stranger's thoughts oppressed - 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 



* From an ancient Hebrew dirge : — 

" Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead, 
For he is at rest, and we in tears 1 " 



Thou think'st it sweet when friend with fnenc" 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land. 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
O, 'midst them all when blessed thru art. 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE. 

They haunt me still — those calm, pure, holy 
eyes ! 
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my 
dreams ; 
The soul of music that within them lies 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams : 
Liie — spirit life — immortal and divine — 
Is there ; and yet how dark a death was thine ! 

Coaia it — O, could it be — meek child of song : 
The might of gentleness on that fair brow — 

Wail the celestial gift no shield from wTong ? 
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow ? 

Ask if a flower, upon the buiuws cast, 

Might brave their strife — a flute note hush the 
blast ! 

Are there not deep, sad oracles to read 
In the clear stillness of that radiant face ? 

Yes ! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed. 
Thrown on a world for heavenly tilings no 
place ! 

Bright, exiled birds that \dsit alien skies, 

Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, 
Whereon their trembling plumage might re- 
pose. 
And their free song notes, from that happy 
nest, 
Gush as a fount that forth from hunlight flows , 
Vain dream ; — the love whose precious balms 

might save 
Still, stiU denied — they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! — another doom. 
Victim ! hath set its promise in tnine eye : 

A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny ; 

Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, 

To the deep souls that find no echo here 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



5iS 



COME HOME! 

Coke home ! There is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went, 
And the early flower scents wander by 

With mournf^il memories blent. 
The tones m every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep ; 
A.nd the sweet word — brother — wakes a wash 

To turn aside and -weep. 

O ye beloved ! come home ! The hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth light and of song 

Returns — and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones ! 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed ? Beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid sea ? 
By stormy hills of battles old ? 

Or where dark rivers foam ? 
O, life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
Our love is gro-v\ni too sorro-v\-ful — 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair. 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

" Implora pace 1 " 1 

Oh a draught, kind fairy! from that fountain 

deep, 
I'o lay the phantoms of a haunted breast ; 
And lone aflections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning marks to lave — 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

^ Quoted from a letter of Lord BjTon's. He describes 
Ae impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bo- 
ogna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, " When I 
iift. I could wish that some friend would see these words, 
Mii no other, placed above my grave — ' Implora pace ! ' " 
67 



Yet, mortal ! pause ! Within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gathered long and slowly ; thought* 

divine 
Heap that full treasure house ; and thou hasi 

made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; — 
Shall the dark /vaters to oblivion bear 
A pj-ramid so fair ? 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught effat « 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amassed, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace. 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf 
Haze the one master grief ! 

Yet pause once more ! All, all thy soul hath 

known, 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ' 
Is there no voice whose kind, aAvakening tone 
A sense of spring time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy daydreams would re- 
call ? 

Think — wouldst thou part with all \ 

Fill with forgetfulness ! There are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well — 
Eyes of deep gentleness ; but they are far — 
Never ! O, never in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off" my yearning soul 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! With memory wilt thou casl 
The undying hope away, of memory born ?. 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last. 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn * 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 
That make such visions bright ? 

Fill with forgetfulnes.0, fill high ! Yet stay 
'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light oui 

way, 
And the soul's friends be wreathed in one bright 

band. 
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill - 
I must remember stUK 

For their sake, for the dead — whose imagi 

nought 
May dim within the temple of my breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthl. 

thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit— '■et 
I ask not to forget. 



«30 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMfc^. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE BRIDAL DAY. 

[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, i«- 
»nllng that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, 
vho expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the al- 

" We bear her home 1 we bear her home 
Orer the murmuring salt sea's foam ; 
One who has fled from the war of life, 
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife." 

Barky Cobnwall. 

Bride ! upon thy marriage day, 
When thy gems in rich array 
Made the glistening mirror seem 
As a star-reflecting stream ; 
When the clustering pearls lay fair 
'Midst thy braids of sunny hair, 
And the white veil o'er thee streaming, 
Like a silvery halo gleaming, 
Mellowed aU that pomp and Hght 
Into something meekly bright ; 
Did the fluttering of thy breath 
Speak of joy or woe beneath ? 
And the hue that went and came 
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame, 
Flowed that crimson from th' unrest 
Or the gladness of thy breast ? 
— Who shall tell us ? From thy bower 
Brightly didst thou pass that hour ; 
With the many- glancing oar, 
And the cheer along the shore, 
And the wealth of summer flowers 
On thy fair head cast in showers. 
And the breath of song and flute. 
And the clarion's glad salute, 
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide 
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride ! 
Mirth and music, sun and sky, 
Welcomed thee triumphantly ! 
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought 
In some deeper spirit wrought, 
\\Tiispering, as untold it blent 
With the sounds of merriment — 
♦ From the home of childhood's glee. 
From the days of laughter free, 
From the love of many years. 
Thou art gone to cares and fears ; 
To another path and guide. 
To a bosom yet untricc' ! 
Bright one ! O, there well may be 
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee ! " 



Bride ! when through the stately fane, 

Circled with thy nuptial train, 

'Midst the banners hung on high 

By thy warrior ancestry, 

'Midst those mighty fathers dead. 

In soft beauty thou wast led ; 

When before the shrine thy form 

Quivered to some bosom storm. 

When, like harpstrings with a sigh. 

Breaking in mid harmony. 

On thy lip the mtirmurs low 

Died with love's unfinished vow ; 

When, like scattered rose leaves fleu 

From thy cheek each tint of red, 

And the light forsook thine eye, 

And thy head sunk heavily ; 

Was that drooping but th' excess 

Of thy spirit's blessedness ? 

Or did some deep feeling's might, 

Folded in thy heart from sight, 

With a sudden tempest shower 

Earthward bear thy life's young flowei ? 

— Who shall tell us ? On thy tongue 

Silence, and forever, hung ! 

Never to thy lip and cheek 

Bushed again the crimson streak ; 

Never to thine eye returned 

That which there had beamed and biirntJ 

With the secret none might know, 

With thy rapture or thy woe, 

With thy marriage robe and wreath, 

Thou wert fled, young bride of death ! 

One, one lightning moment there 

Struck down triumph to despair ; 

Beauty, splendor, hope, and trust, 

Into darkness — terror — dust ! 

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, 
Bride ! as forth thy kindred bore thee, 
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, 
Deaf to that wild funeral wail. 
Yet perchance a chastening thought 
In some deeper spirit wrought. 
Whispering, while the stem, sad knell 
On the air's bright stillness fell — 
*• From the power of chill and change 
Souls to sever and estrange ; 
From love's wane — a death in life, 
But to watch — a mortal strifp 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



631 



From the secret fevers knoA\Ti 

To the burning heart alone, 

Thou art fled — afar, away — 

Where these blights no more have sway ! 

Bright one ! O, there well may be 

Comfort 'midst our tears for thee ! " 



THE ANCESTRAL SONG. 

" A long war disturbed your mind — 
Here your perfect peace is signed ; 
'Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day — 
End your moan.and come away." 

Webster, "Duchess of Malfy." 

I'here were faint sounds of weeping ; fear and 

gloom 
And midnight vigil in a stately room 
Of Lusignan's old halls. Rich odors there 
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air, 
And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown 
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone 
Over a gorgeous couch : there emeralds gleamed, 
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed 
Than in the heart leaf of the rose is set, 
Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet 
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain 
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain. 
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath 
WTiose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death. 
Hung drooping solemnly, — for there one lay, 
Passing from all earth's glories fast away. 
Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been 
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands ; 
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen 
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands 
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more, 
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er — 
Love's last, vain clinging unto life ; and now 
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow ; 
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed, 
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved. 
Far, far away ! Her handmaids w^atched around, 
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound 
A might, a mystery ; and the quivering light 
Of wind- swayed lamps made spectral in their 

sight 
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair. 
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair. 
Long in the dust grown dim ; and she, too, saw, 
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe, 
Those pictured shapes ! — a bright, yet solemn 

train 
Beckoruig, they f ^ated o'er her dreamy brain, 



Clothed in diviner hues ; while on her ear 
Strange voices fell, which none besides might 

hear, 
— Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as th« 

sigh 
Of winds o'er harpstrings through a midnighi 

sky ; 
And thus it seemed, in that low, thriUir^ 

tone, 
Th' ancestral shadows called away their own. 

Come, come, come ! 
Long thy fainting soul hath yearned 
For the step that ne'er returned ; 
Long thine anxious ear hath listened. 
And thy watchful eye hath glistened 
With the hope, whose parting strife 
Shook the flower leaves from thy life 
Now the heavy day is done : 
Home awaits thee, wearied one ! 

Come, come, come ! 

From the quenchless thoughts that bum 
In the sealed heart's lonely urnj 
From the coil of memory's chain 
Wound about the throbbing brain ; 
From the veins of sorrow deep, 
Winding through the world of sleep ; 
From the haunted halls and bowers, 
Thronged with ghosts of happier hours I 
Come, come, come ! 

On our dim and distant shore 

Aching love is felt no more ! 

We have loved with earth's excess — 

Past is now that weariness ! 

We have wept, that weep not now — 

Calm is each once-beating brow ! 

We have kno^^^l the dreamer's woe» 

All is now one bright repose ! 

Come, come, come ! 

Weary heart that long hast bled. 
Languid spirit, drooping head, 
Restless memory, vain regret, 
Pining love whose light is set. 
Come away ! — 'tis hushed, 'tis well, 
WTiere by shadowy founts we dwell. 
All the fever thirst is stilled, 
All the air with peace is filled, — 
Come, come, come ! 

And with her spirit wrapped in that wila 

lay 
She passed, as twilight melts to night, away ! 



jS2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE MAGIC GLASS. 

•* now lived, how loved, how died they ?"— Btrok. 

* The dead ! the glorious dead ! — and shall 

they rise ? 
Slall they look on thee with their proud bright 
eyes ? 

Thou ask'st a fearful spell ! 
Jfet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall 
What kingly vision shall obey my call ? 
The deep grave knows it well ! 

" Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors ? shall 

they pass 
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 

With triumph's long array ? 
Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn, 
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, 

As on their proudest day. 

*• Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of 

song ? 
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 

Shall waft a solemn gleam ! 
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, 
Under the foliage of green laurel boughs. 

But silent as a dream." 

« Not these, O mighty master ! — though their 

lays 
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise. 

Hallowed forevermore ! 
And not the buried conquerors — let them sleep, 
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep 
In joy, from shore to shore ! 

" But if the narrow house may so be moved. 
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved 

Back from their couch of rest ! 
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled 
With peace, if human love hath ever stilled 

The yearning human breast." 

« Away, fond youth ! — an idle quest is thine : 
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine ; 

I know not of their place ! 
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, 
rheir lives, like shepherd reed notes, faint and 
low. 

Have passed, and left no trace. 

* Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, 
ind the wild sounds of melancholy rills, 

'Jbcir covering turf may bloom ;• 



But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowers — 
Never hath pilgrim sought their household 
bowers, 

Or poet hailed their tomb. ' 

" Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell ! 
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves 
may tell 

That which I pine to kK^^*^ ! 
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, 
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, 

Records of joy and woe." 



CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 

" Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrie:* tMa 
peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d*une femnr* 
aimee et d'une mere heureuse." Madame de Si kM 

Daughter of th* Italian heaven ! 
Thou to whom its fires are given. 
Joyously thy car hath rolled 
Where the conqueror's passed of old ; 
And the festal sun that shone 
O'er three hundred triumphs gone/ 
Makes thy day of glory bright 
With a shower of golden light. 

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road 
Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 
W^hile, from tombs of heroes borne, 
From the dust of empire shorn, 
Flowers upon thy graceful head, 
Chaplets of all hues, are shed, 
In a soft and rosy rain, 
Tothched with many a gem-like stain. 

Thou h^st gained the summit now ! 
Music hails ihee from below ; 
Music, whose rich notes might stir 
Ashes of the sepulchre ; 
Shaking with victorious notes 
All the bright air as it floats. 
Well may woman's heart beat :-»gh 
Unto that proud harmony ! 

Now afar it rolls — it dies — 
And thy voice is heard to rise 
With a low and lovely tone. 
In its thrilling power alone ; 
And thy lyre's deep silvery string. 
Touched as by a breeze's wing, 

1 " The trebly hundred triumphs."-- B?f j- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Wi 


Murmurs tremblingly at first, 


Thou bindest me with mighty spells ! 


Ere the tide of raiDture burst. 


— A solemnizing breath, 




A presence all around thee dwells 


All the spirit of thy sky 


Of human life and death. 


Now hath lit thy large dark eye. 


I need but pluck yon garden flower 


And thy cheek a flush hath caught 


From where the wild weeds rise, 


From the joy of kindled thought ; 


To wake, with strange and sudden pcwfT, 


And the burning words of song 


A thousand sympathies. 


From thy lip flow fast and strong, 




With a rushing stream's delight 


Thou hast heard many sounds, thou 1 earth 


In the freedom of its might. 


Deserted now by all ! 




Voices at eve here met in mirth 


Radiant daughter of the sun ! 


Which eve may ne'er recall. 


Now thy living wreath is won. 


Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 


Crowned of Rome ! — 0, art thou not 


And childhood's laughing glee. 


Happy in that glorious lot ? 


And song and prayer, have all been kncTim 


Happier, happier far than thou. 


Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 


"With the laurel on thy brow. 




She that makes the humblest hearth 


Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured 


lively but to one on earth ! 


Upon the infant head. 




As if in every fervent word 




The living soul w-ere shed ; 




Thou hast seen partings, such as bear 


THE RUIN. 


The bloom from life away — 


O, lis the heart that magnifies this life, 


Alas ! for love in changeful air. 


Making a truth and beauty of its own." 


Where nought beloved can stay ! 


Wordsworth. 




" Birth has gladdened it : death has sanctified it ' 
GuKSSEs AT TEura, 


Here, by the restless bed of pain, 




The vigil hath been kept. 


No dower of storied song is thine. 


Till sunrise, bright with hope in vaiu. 


desolate abode ! 


Burst forth on eyes that wept ; 


Forth from thy gates no glittering line 


Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, 


Of lance and spear hath flowed. 


The breathless influence, shed 


Banners of knighthood have not flung 


Through the dim dwelling, from tbi- 


Proud drapery o'er thy walls. 


room 


Nor bugle notes to battle rung 


Wherein reposed the dead. 


Through thy resounding halls. 






The seat left void, the missing face. 


Nor have rich bowers of pleasatmce here 


Have here been marked and mourned, 


By courtly hands been dressed, 


And time hath filled the vacant place. 


For princes, from the chase of deer, 


And gladness hath returned ; 


Under green leaves to rest : 


Till from the narrowing household chain 


Only some rose, yet lingering bright 


The links dropped one by one ! 


Bosid?thy casements lone. 


And homewards hither, o'er the main, 


Tells where the spirit of delight 


Came the spring biwis alone. 


Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 






Is there not cause, then — cause for tlw:»-:ight, 


Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, 


Fixed eye and lingering tread, 


And sovereign beauty's lot, 


Where, with their thousand mysteries fraugb^ 


House of quenched light and silent board ! 


Even lowliest hearts have bled ? 


For me thou needest not. 


W^here, in its ever-haunting thirst 


ft is enough to know that here, 


For draughts of purer day. 


Where thoughtfully I stand. 


Man's soul, with fitful strength, hat> 


borrow and love, and hope and fear, 


burst 


Have linked one kindred band. 


The clouds that wrapt its way ? 



Holy tc human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot — 
To deep affections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here, 

Hearth of the dead ! I stand, 
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear. 

Have linked one household band. 



THE MINSTER. 

Spi'AK low ! The place is holy to the breath 
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer ; 

Tread lightly ! — for the sanctity of death 
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air, 

Stern, yet serene ! — a reconciling spell, 

Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 

Leave me to linger silently a while ! 
— Not for the light that pours its fervid 
streams 
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, 

Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. 
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's 

tomb 
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : 

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, 

Mighty as forest sounds when winds are 

high; 

Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 

Through incense mists their sainted pageantry, 

Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and 

power, 
ITet not for these I ask one lingering hour 

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 

Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have 
poured 
Their anguish forth, are with me and around ; 

[ look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 

Known to these altars of a thousand years. 

Send up a murmur from the dust. Remorse ! 

That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head ; 

A.nd thou, still battling with the tempest's 

force — 

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time 

has bled — 

Speak, wounded Love ! if penance here, or 

prayer, 
'Tath laid une haunting shadow of despair^. 



voice, no breath ! — of conflicts past no 
trace ! 
— Doth not this hush give answer to tr 
quest ? 
Surely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might (oa 
fessed ! — 
O that within my heart I could but keep 
Holy to Heaven a spot thus pure, and still, and 
deep ! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT.» 

" O night, 
And storm, and darkness I ye are wondrous strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength 1 " Brsoir. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet 

dew 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves. 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that, on their noonday 

track. 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace, — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood walks, o'er the honey 

bee, 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young 
glee. 
The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 



1 Pn«r{»ested by Tliorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, repr© 
sented under tlie fonn of a winged female fij; ire, \vi ii iwc 
infants asleei) in her arms 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



03d 



I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or bviried streair-S, unheard amidst their 
glades 

Till the bright day is done ; — 

But in the human breast 
A. thjasand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soiil to 
shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 
From crushed affections, which, though long 
o'orborne, 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmvurs of a 
dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

1 come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely ? Hosts around me tread, 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes, 
rhese are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish 

vaii^ 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain^ 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control 
Bhut the dim violet, hush the Avoodland song, 
I am the avenging one! — the armed, the 
strong — 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms — the 

tempest bii-th 
.>f ni5mory, thought, remorse ! Be holy, Earth ! 

I am the solemn Night ! ^ 



*■ rtevio Miilier, called II Tempesta, from his surprising 
^ctures of storms. " His compositions," says Lanzi, " in- 
ipire a reii horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted 
hjps overtaken by tempests and darkness — fired by light- 
ning — now rising on the mountain wave, and again sub- 
merged in tlie abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment 
of five '/ears in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his 
li'.nger^ were marked by additional power and gloom. — 
See LA^1J■'s History of Painting, translated by Roscoe. 



THE STORM PAINTER IN HIS 
DUNGEON. 

" Where of ye, O tempeBts, is the goal ? 
Are ye like those that shake the human breact 7 
Or do ye find at length, hke eagles, Bome high Tjert?" 

CUILDK ELkBOLOk 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 
— The air is filled with sleep. 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron' t 
breath ; 
The fixed and solemn stars 
Gleam through my dungeon barp x- 
"Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm if 
death ! 

Ye watchfires of the skies ! 

The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul : 

I feel this weight of rest 

An earth load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark cloudAi 
roU! 

I am your own, your child, 

O ye, the fierce, and wild. 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise } 

Hear the bold spirit's voice, 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean waves. 

And dim Calabrian caves, 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate • 

And with the rocking pines 

Of the olden Apennines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate. 

Your lightnings were as rods. 

That smote the deep abodes 
Of thought and vision -- and the stream gushed 
free ; 

Come ! that my roul again 

May swell to burst its chain — 
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame, 

An eagle caged and tame. 
Till called forth by the harping of the blast 

The7i is its triumph's hour, 

It springs to sudden power. 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering malt 

Then, then, the canvas o'er. 
With hurried hand I pour 



d36 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The lava waves and gusts of my own soul ! 

Kindling to fiery life 

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife — 
Wake, rushing mnds, awake ! and, dark clouds, 
roll! 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 

The shivering leaf descend, 
rhe forest branch give way before your might ; 

But I, your strong compeer, 

Call, summon, wait you here — 
AJiswer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 



THE TWO VOICES. 

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain. 

Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 

Meet in the sky : 
•* Thou art gone hence ! " one sang ; <' our light 

is flown, 
Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own 
Ever to die ! 

" Thou art gone hence ! — our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song. 
When spring flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 
Of thy glad eyes." 

" Thou art gone home, gone home ! " then, high 

and clear. 
Warbled that other Voice. " Thou hast no tear 

Again to shed ; 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain ; 
Never, weighed down by memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

»* Thou art gone home ! O early crowned and 

blessed ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 

With aught below ? 
thou n:ust have seen rich dream by dream decay. 
All the bright rose leaves drop from life away — 

Thrice blessed to go ! " 

Yet sighed again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 
" Thou art gone hence ! Alas, that aught so brief 

So loved should be .! 
Thou tak st our summer hence ! — the flower, 

the tone, 
The music of our being, all in one, 
Depart with l\iee ! 



*' Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ' 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead — 

The dark unknown ? 
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, 
Never again to light up heartli or hall, 

Thy smile is gone ! " 

"Home, home!" once more the exulting Voic« 

arose : 
" Thou art gone home ! — from that divine re- 
pose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 
Thou art gone home ! 

" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast — 
Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath passed 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled, 
Home ! home ! — thy peace is won, thy heart ii 
filled: — 

Thou art gone home ! " 



THE PARTING SHIP. 



' A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain."— Wobdswoeth. 



Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 

Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 

Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, 
Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, 
The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and 
song; 

Who now of storms hath dream or memory left 
And yet the deep is strong ! 

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 
Of summer tremble on the water s breast ! 

Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles. 
In lone, wild beauty dressed. 

To thee a welcome breathing o'er the tide 
The genii groves of Araby shall pour ; 

Waves that infold the pearl shall bathe thy side 
On the old Indian shore. 

Oft shall the shadow of the palm tree lie 
O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails ar? ♦"'xrled 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 60/ 


And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by, 


Dwells there no voice amidst thy boxighs, 


Tales of the elder world. 


With leaves yet darkly green ? 




Stillness is round, and noontide glows — 


Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies, 


Tell us what thou hast seen. 


On the mid ocean see thee chained in sleep. 




A. lonely home for human thoughts and ties, 


*« I have seen the forest shadows lie 


Between the heavens and deep. 


Where men now reap the corn ; 




I have seen the kingly chase rush by 


Btue seas, that roll on gorgeous coasts renowned, 


Through the deep glades at mom. 


By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes 




way; 


*• With the glance of many a gallant spear, 


Strange creatures of the abyss, that none may 


And the wave of many a plume, 


sound. 


And the bounding of a hundred deer, 


111 thy broad wake shall play. 


It has lit the woodland's gloom. 


From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear. 


" I have seen the knight and his train ridi 


Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark ; 


past. 


Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 


With his banner borne on high ; 


Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! 


O'er all my leaves there was brightness ca«t 




From his gleaming panoply. 


A long farewell ! Thou wilt not bring us back 




All whom thou bearest far from home and 


'• The pilgrim at my feet hath laid 


hearth : 


His palm branch 'midst the flowers, 


Many are thine, whose steps no more shall 


And told his beads, and meekly prayed* 


track 


Kneeling, at vesper hours. 


Theii own sweet native earth ! 






♦• And the merry men of wild and glen, 


Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's 


In the green array they wore, 


shade. 


Have feasted here, with the red wine's ct eei 


Where through the foliage Indian suns look 


And the hunter's song of yore. 


bright ; 




Some in the snows of wintry regions laid, 


« And the minstrel, resting in my shade, 


By the cold northern light. 


Hath made the forest ring 




With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, 


And some, far do^vn below the sounding wave, 


Once loved by chief and king. 


Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them 




sweep ; 


'« But now the noble forms are gone 


Never may flower be strewn above their grave. 


That walked the earth of old ; 


Ne/er may sister weep ! 


The soft wind has a mournful tone, 




The sunny light looks cold. 


And thou, the billow's queen — even thy proud 




form 


" There is no glory left us now 


Oi our glad sight no more perchance may 


Like the glory with the dead ; 


sv^ell ; 


I would that, where they slumber low. 


Vet God alike is in tua ca^m and storm — 


My latest leaves were shed ! " 


Far 5 thee well, bark ! farewell ! 






thou dark tree, thou lonely tree, 




That mournest for the past ! 




A peasant's home in thy shades I see, 


THE LASl TREE OF THE FOREST. 


Embowered from every blast. 


Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree, 


A lovely and a mirthful sound 


One, where a thousand stood ! 


Of laughter meets mine ear ; 


Well might proud tales be told by thee, 


For the poor man's children sport around 


Last of the solemn wood ! 
68 


On the turf, wi*-h nought to fear 



»Z6 



MISCELLANEOUS PJEMS. 



And roses lend that cabin's wall 

A happy summer glow : 
And the open door stands free to all, 

For it recks not of a foe. 

And the village bells are on the breeze 

That stirs thy leaf, dark tree ! 
How can I mourn 'midst things like these, 
^ For the stormy past, with thee ! 



THE STREAMS. 

"The power, the beauty, and the majesty. 
That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 
Or chasms and watery depths ; all those have vanish'd I 
They live no longer in the faith of heaven. 
But still the heart doth need a language ! " 

Coleridge's " Wallensteln." 

ITe Lave been holy, O founts and floods ! 
Yc of the ancient and solemn woods, 
Ye that are born of the valleys deep, 
With the water flowers on your breast asleep. 
And ye that gush from the sounding caves — 
Hallowed have been your waves. 

Hallowed by man, in his dreams of old, 
Unto beings not of this mortal mould — 
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers, 
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours. 
And sought with its fancied sound to still 
The heart earth could not fill. 

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, 
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams ! were 

thrown ; 
Thousands of gifts to the sunny sea 
B.3fre ye swept along, in your wanderings free, 
And thrill' d to the murmur of many a vow — 
Where all is silent now ! 



Nor 



it strange that the heart hath 



seems 
been 
So inked in love to your margins green ; 
Tl.at still, though ruined, your early shrines 
It. beauty gleam through the southern vines, 
And the ivied chapels of colder skies 
On your wild banks arise. 

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth 
Are those, bright streams ! where your springs 

have birth ; 
vVhether their caverned murmur fills. 
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills, 



Or the glad sweet laugh of then- healthful flc^ 
Is heaid 'midst the hamlets low. 

Or whether ye gladden the desert sands 
With a joyous music to pilgrim bands. 
And a flash from under some ancient rock. 
Where a shepherd king might have watched b j 

flock. 
Where a few lone palm trees lift their heads. 
And a green acacia spreads. 

Or whether, in bright old lands reno-s^Tied, 
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound. 
And the shadow, flung from the Greci«n 

pine, 
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleamisg 

line. 
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves, 
Beside heroic graves. 

Voices and lights of the lordly place ! 
By the freshest fern your path we trace ; 
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, 
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss ; 
By the rainbow glancing of insect wings, 
In a thousand mazy rings. 

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers 
Are all your own through the summer hours ; 
There the proud stag his fair image knows. 
Traced on your glass beneath alder boughs ; 
And the halcyon's breast, like the skies arrayed, 
Gleams through the willow shade. 

But the wild sweet tales that with elves and 

fays 
Peopled your banks in the olden days, 
And the memory left by departed love 
To your antique founts in gien and grove, 
And the glory born of the poet's dreams — 

These are your charms, bright streams . 

Now is the time of your flowery rites 
Gone by with its dances and young dehghts : 
From your marble urns ye have burst away. 
From your chapel cells to the laughing day ; 
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown, 
And the woods again are lone. 

Yet holy still be your living springs. 
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things ! 
Holy, to converse with nature's lore, 
That gives the worn spirit its youth once moifl^ 
And to silent thoughts of the love divine, 
]Makin"r the heart a shrme ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 



* There la nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit." 

Gray's "Letters." 



1), MAiTV a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full many 

a voice is thine ! 
From every scene thy wing o'erswecps thou 

bear'st a sound and sign ; 
A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a 

mastery all thine own, 
And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives 

the answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shivered helmets lie. 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of 

a clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner folds, a peal of 

stormy drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 

wastes brought back 
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery 

of thy track — 
The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some 

green palmy shore. 
The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered 

billows' roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 
mighty-rushing Wind ! 

And thou bearest all their unisons in one full 
swell combined ; 

The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hid- 
den things and free. 

Of the dim, old sounding wilderness, have lent 
their soul to thee. 

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the 

conqueror passing by, 
rhou art wafting from their streets a sound of 

haughty revelry ; 
ITie lolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings 

in the hall, 
the far-oiF shout of multitudes, are in thy rise 

and fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thous and years thy 

lonely wmg hath passed ; 



Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell 

the stately dirge's tone. 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, 

to his place of slumber gone. 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, where* 

in our young days flew ; 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering therei 

the loved, the kind, the true ; 
Thou callest back those melodies, though no^ 

all changed and fled — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music 

from the dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind? these 

many notes in thee ? 
Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount 

must surely be ; 
Yes ! buried, but unsleeping, there thought 

watches, memory lies. 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured 

through all earth's harmonies. 



THE VIGIL OF ARMS. 

A SOUNDING step was heard by night 

In a church where the mighty slept, 
As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 

'Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 
He walked in dreams of power and fame, 

He lifted a proud bright eye, 
For the hours were few that withheld hu 
name 

From the roll of chivalry. 

Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone. 

With a free and stately tread ; 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone 

From the couches of the dead : 
The silent many that round him lay, 

The crowned and helmed that were, 
The haughty chiefs of the war array — 

Each in his sepulchre ! 

But no dim warning of time or fate 
That youth's flushed hopes could chill ; 

He moved through the trophies of buried state 
With each proud pulse throbbing still. 



1 The candidate for knighthood was under the necesstv 
of keeping watch, the nijjht before his inauguration, in 4 
church, and completely armed. This was called " the Vf 
gil of Arras." 



540 



MISCELLANEOUS PO EMS. 



He heard, as the wind tlirough the chancel 
sung, 

A swell of the trumpet's breath ; 
He looked to the banners on high that hung^ 

And not to the dust beneath. 

And a royal mask of splendor seemed 

Before him to unfold ; 
Thx^'ough the solemn arches on it streamed, 

With many a gleam of gold : 
There w^ere crested knight, and gorgeous 
dame, 

Glittering athwart the gloom ; 
And he followed, till his bold step came 

To his warrior father's tomb. 

But there the still and shadowy night 

Of the monumental stone, 
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light 

That over its quiet shone. 
And the image of that sire, who died 

In his noonday of renown — 
T},ese had a power unto which the pride 

Of fiery life bowed down. 

And a spirit from his early years 

Came back o'er his thoughts to move, 
Till his eye was filled with memory's tears, 

And his heart with childhood's love ! 
And he looked, with a change in his softening 
glance, 

To the armor o'er the grave — 
For there they hung, the shield and lance. 

And the gantlet of the brave. 

And the sword of many a field was there, 

With its cross for the hour of need. 
When the knight's bold war cry hath sunk in 
prayer. 

And the spear is a broken reed ! 
— Hush ! did a breeze through the armor 
sigh ? 

Did the folds of the banner shake ? 
Not 80 ! — from the tomb's dark mystery 

There seemed a voice to break ! 

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow. 

He had caught its last blessing's breath — 
'Twas the same — but its awful sweetness 
now 

Had an undertone of death ! 
And it said — '« The sword hath conquered king?. 

And the spear through realms hath passed ; 
Rut the cross, alone, of all these things, 

Mif^ht aid me at the last," 



THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSB 
ABBEY. 

Heart ! that didst press forward still,' 
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill. 
Where the knightly swords were crossing, 
And the plumes like sea foam tossing. 
Leader of the charging spear. 
Fiery heart ! — and liest thou heref 
May this narrow spot inurn 
Aught that so could beat and burn ? 
Heart ! that lov'dst the clarion's blast, 
Silent is thy place at last ; 
Silent — save when early bird 
Sings where once the mass was heard ; 
Silent — save when breeze's moan 
Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 
And the wild rose weaves around thee, 
And the long dark grass hath bound 
thee, 

— Sleep' st thou, as the swain might sleep, 
In his nameless valley deep ? 

No ! brave heart ! though cold and lone. 
Kingly power is yet thine own ! 
Feel I not thy spirit brood 
O'er the whispering solitude ? 
Lo ! at one high thought of thee. 
Fast they rise, the bold, the free. 
Sweeping past thy lowly bed, 
With a mute, yet stately tread. 
Shedding their pale armor's Hght 
Forth upon the breathless night. 
Bending every warlike plume 
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 

Is the noble Douglas nigh. 
Armed to follow thee, or die ? 
Now, true heart ! as thou wert wont. 
Pass thou to the peril's front ! 
Where the banner spear is gleaming. 
And the battle's red wine streaming, 
Till the Paynim quail before thee. 
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee. 

— Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 
Wins me from their splendors brief; 
Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn then> 

not, 
Thou that seek'st the holy spot ; 
Nor, amidst its lone domain, 
Call the faith in relics vain ! 

1 " Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, a no 
Douglas will follow thee, or die!" With these word? 
Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce intf mid battl* 
against the Moors of Spain. 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 



* The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." 

Coleridge's ""NVallenstein." 



A. YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home, 
Through the crowded paths of the world to 

roam ; 
And the green leaves whispered, as he passed, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer ! away so fast ? 

" Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here, 
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear ; 
Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours. 
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's 
wild flowers. 

"Under the arch by our mingling made, 
Thou and thy brother have gayly played ; 
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore. 
But as ye have met there — O, nevermore ! " 

On rode the youth — and the boughs among 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
•• Wherefore so fast unto life away ? 
Thou art leaving forever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou mayst come to the summer woods again. 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell — 
A change must pass o'er thee. Farewell, fare- 
well ! " 

•Jn rode the youth — and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
*• We have been thy playmates through many a 

day. 
Wherefore thus leave us ? — 0, yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth ! 
For thee 'tis a melody passing from earth ; 
Never again wilt thou find in its flow 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

" Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's 

glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirred, 
doid the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no 

part — 
What should it do for a burning heart ? 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill 
Thii-st which no fountain on earth mav still. 



I " Farewell ! — when thou comest again to thini 

j own. 

Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone ', 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell — 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell ! " 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weigned 
As he caught the last sounds of his natiy* 

shade ; 
But he knew not, till many a oright spell broke, 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



THE BEINGS OF THE MIND 

" The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage." Byeow. 

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes 
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought I 

I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs. 
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought j 

'Midst the glad music of the spring alone, 

And sorrowful for visions that are gone ! 

Come to me ! make your thrilling whisper a 
heard, 
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed 
With life, and love, and many a burning word, 
That bursts from grief like lightning from 8 
cloud, 
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply. 
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit my dim haunt ! — the sound 

Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 
The stock-dove's note above ; and all around, 

The poesy that with the violet's breath 
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden 

streams, 
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep 
dreams. 

Friends, friends ! — for such to my lone heart 
ye are — 
Unchanging ones ! from whose immortal ej-ei 
The glory melts not as a waning star. 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies , 
Bright children of the bard ! o'er this greer 

dell 
Pass once again, and light it with your spoil ! 



(42 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Imogen ! fair Fidele ! meekly blending 

In patient grief, " a smiling with a sigh ; " ' 

Ajid thou, Cordelia ! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Tliou of the soft low voice ! — thou art not gone ! 

Still breathes for me its faint and Hute-like tone. 

And come to me ! — sing me thy willow strain, 

Sweet Desdemona ! with the sad surprise 
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though 
vain, 
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies ; 
Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and 

scorn, 
As a frail hyacinth by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ojihelia ! flowers are here, 

That well might win thy footstep to the spot — 
g ale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier. 
And pansies for sad thoughts,^ — but needed 
not! 
Jome with thy wreaths, and all the love and 

light 
In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south ! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong ; 

The ^low, the sweetness, in its rose combining. 
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song. 

Thou, making death deep joy ! — but couldst 
thou die ? 

No ! — thy young love hath immortality ! 

From earth's bright faces fades the light of 
morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone ; 
But ye, the children of the soul, were born 

Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 
And, O ye beautiful ! 'tis well, how well. 
In the soul's world, with you, where change is 
not, to dwell ! 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 

"A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth ita 
■»el»ncholy music to the wind — but no human being was to be 
•een." S^i^ate i — 

A DEEP- TO NED lyre hung murmuring 
To the wild wind of the sea ; 

1 •' Nobly he yokes 

A smiling with a sigh." — Cymbeline. 
I " Here's pansies for you — that's for thoughts." 

Hamlet. 



" O melancholy wind," it sighed, 
" What would thy breath with me ? 

" Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering lies, 
Thou strik'st not forth th' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 

*' Wind of the dark -sea waters ! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of moumfulness, 

With the rushing of thy wings. 

••But the spell — the gift — the light- 
ning— 

Within my frame concealed, 
Must I moulder on the rock away 

With their triumphs unrevealed ? 

•• I have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancieni 
hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll. 

•• I have pealing notes of victory 
That might welcome king's from war ; 

I have rich, deep tones to send the wail 
For a hero's death afar. 

*' I have chords to lift the paean 

From the temple to the sky, 
Full as the forest unisons 

When sweeping -wdnds are high. 

" And love — for love's lone sorrow 
I have accents that might swell 

Through the summer air with the rose 
breath. 
Or the violet's faint farewell : 

<• Soft — spiritual — mournful — 
Sighs in each note enshrined — 

But who shall call that sweetness forth ? 
7%0M canst not, ocean wind ! 

*» I pass without my glory. 

Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life ? 

— Wild, fitful w'nd, away ! " 

So sighed the broken music 
That in gladness had no part — 

How like art thou, neglected lyre ! 
To manv a human heart ! 



r ■ — ' ~~ — ' — " 

i 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 54. 


1 


Streaming through every haughty aich of th* 


TASSO'S CORONATION.' 


Caesars' past renown — 


A crown of victory J a triumphal song 


Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueroi 


O, call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 


for his crown ! 


The weary one may calmly sink to rest ; 




Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, 
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony ! 


Shut the proud, bright sunshine 




From the fading sight ! 


A TRniPEx's note is in the sky, in the glorious 


There needs no ray by the bed cf death, 


Roman sky, 


Save the holy taper's light. 


^Vliose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the 




voice of victory 5 


The wreath is twined — the way is strewn — tb 


rhere is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial 


lordly train are met — 


streets r^ong, 


The streets are hung with coronals — why staj^i 


For again a c. nqueror must be cro-vvned — a 


the minstrel yet ? 


kingly child of song : 


Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a roya, 




chief- 


Yet his chariot lingers, 


Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of 


Yet around his home 


love and grief ! 


Broods a shadow silently. 




'Midst the joy of Rome. 


Silence ! forth we bring him, 




In his last array ; 


A thousand, thousand laurel boughs are waving 


From love and grief the freed, the flown— 


wide and far. 


Way for the bier ! — make way ! 


To shed out their triumphal gleams around his 




rolling car ; 




A thousand haunts of olden gods have given 




their wealth of flowers. 




To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in 


THE BETIER LAND. 


gem-like showers. 






«< I HEAR thee speak of the better land, 


Peace ! Within his chamber 


Thou call'st its children a happy band } 


Low the mighty lies — 


Mother ! 0, where is that radiant shore ? 


With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow. 


Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 


And a wandering in his eyes. 


Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 




And the fireflies glance through the myrtl« 


Sing, sing for him, the lord of song — for him. 


boughs ? " 


whose rushing strain 


— "Not there, not there, my child ! ' 


In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong 




wind o'er the main ! 


<• Is it where the feathery palm trees rise. 


Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for- 


And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 


ever there to dwell, 


Or 'midst the green islands of glittering 


As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's 


seas. 


holiest cell. 


"Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 




And strange, bright birds on their starry wings 


Yes ! for him, the victor. 


Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? " 


Sing — but low, sing low ! 


— '« Not there, not there, my child ! " 


A soft, sad miserere chant 




For a soul about to go ! 


'• Is it far away, in some region old. 




AVhere the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? 


rhe sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way. 


^Vhere the burning rays of the ruby shine. 


Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, 


And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 


a flood of golden day ; 


And the pearl gleams forth from the eora 




strand ? — 


» Tasso died at Rome on the day betore that appointed 


Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land ? ' 


'w hi/? coronation in the Capito 


— '« Not there, not here, my child ! 



b44 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



•* Eye hath, not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Borrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
*^or beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
t is there, it is there, my child ! " 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 

Eagle ! this is not thy sphere ! 
Warrior bird ! what seek'st thou here ? 
^^^lerefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink ? 
Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head ? 
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn. 
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn ! 

Eagle ! wilt thou not arise ? 
Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won ! 
And the mountain lark is there, 
And sweet sound hath filled the air ; 
Hast thou left that realm on high ? 

— O, it can be but to die ! 

Eagle ! eagle ! thou hast bowed 
From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
Thou, that hadst ethereal birth, 
Thou hast stooped too near the earth, 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee ! 

— Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, 
Creature of a kingly race ? 

Wert thou weary of thy throne ? 
Was thy sky's dominion lone ? 
Chill and lone it well might be, 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast. 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 

— Woe for gifted souls and high ! 
la not such their destiny ? 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 

" Nay, these •vrild fits of uncurbed laughter 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
As it has lowered of lute, so keenly cast, 
nnauited seem, and strange. 



O, nothing strange I 
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud. 
In the sunned glimpses of a troubled day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness ? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning, flash 
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path, 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 

O gentle friend I 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, 
And may be so to-morrow ! " Joanna Baillix. 

Ye met at th* stately feasts of old. 

Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured 

gold; 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high 
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a 

gloom, 
A thought and a shadow of the tomb ; 
It gave to the flute notes an underton3, 
To the rose a coloring not its own, 
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Ye met Avhen the triumph swept proudly by 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that even then, in his hour of pride. 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still. 
Which the music of victory might never fill ! 

Thou wert there, O Mirth ! swelling on the 

shout, 
Till the temples, like echo caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine — 
All the rich voices in air were thine, 
The incense, the sunshine — but, Sadness, thy 

pari;, 
Deepest of all, was the victor's teart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ; 

As the gleam from a sea bird's white win^ 

shed 
Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 
As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 
Sadness and Mirth ! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast, 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest 1 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring. 
When the woods with the wakening of music 

ring. 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass. 
Like shadow *nd sunlight o'er mountain grass 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SU 



When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth ? 
Bright stream and dark one ! 0, never on earth ! 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, 
While death and love walk the same dim sphere. 
While flowers unfold where the storm may 

sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, O ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the STimmer air : 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies ; 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, 
And joy reigns alone, as the loneiy sun ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG. 

" Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen, 
Die mit eeelenvoUen melodie 
Dich entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen ? 
— Nur 80 lang sie liebten, waren sie." ScHliaj(» 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away, my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone, 

And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendor. 
The waters changed their tone, 

And wherefore, in the faded worlds 
Shotdd music linger on ? 

Where is the golden sunshine. 
And where the flower-cup's glow? 

And where the joy of the dancing leavtB, 
And the fountain's laughing flow ? 

A voice, in every whisper 
Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful, 
And moaning, " Where, O, where ? " 

Tell of the brightness parted, 

Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 

— Are ye, too, passed away ? 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

The royal rose is gone : 
Melt from the woods, my spirit ! melt 

In one deep fareweU tone ! 

Not so ! — swell forth triumphantly 
The full, rich, fervent strain ! 
69 



Hence with young love and life I go. 
In the summer's jovous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odor. 

With every precious thing. 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger. 

When the days of hope are passed, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf. 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly I 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure. 

And the greensward's violet breath. 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind. 
May there kji'^'^' 'lought of death. 

No more, iv more sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
With love, the spirit of the woods. 

With summer I uepart 1 



THE DIVER. 

" They learn in suffering what they teach in song." — Shell* 

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral gro^ 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 

Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of ol»4. 

And wrecks where the brave have striven ! 
The deep is a strong and a fearful hold. 

But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weaiy life is thine — 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure grots for thefi may shine, 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free, 
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek. 
Well are the death signs read — 



54c 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek, 
Ere hope and power be fled ! 

Ajid bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all in the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee ? 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
^' A life hath been, hke a raindrop, shed 

Por that pale, quivering ray ! " 

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought . 

— And are not those like thee. 
Who win for earth the gems of thought ? 

O wrestler with the sea ! 

D!>wii to the gulfs of the soul they go, 
Where the passion fountains burn, 

Gathering the jewels far below 
From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava veins the fire 
That o'er bright words is poured ; 

Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 
A spirit in each chord. 

But O, the price of bitter tears 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last, o'er desert years, 

A darkly-glorious dower ! 

Like flower seeds, by the wild wind spread, 

So radiant thoughts are strewed ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed 

May faint in solitude ! 

And who will think tvhen the strain is sung 
Till a thousand he irts are stirred. 

What lifedrops, from the minstrel wrung, 
Have gushed with every w^ord ? 

None, none ! — his treasures live hke thine. 

He strives and dies like thee ; — 
Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS. 

" Les poetes, doni I'imaginal'on tlent la puiBsance d'aimer et de 
onflrir, ne lont-iU pas Ics bannis 'I'une autre region ?" 

Madame . Js Sstael — " De L' Allemagne." 

3fo tears for thee ! though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet rf'stless one ! 
No tears for thee ! 



They that loved an exile, must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourn 
O'er the dark sea. 

All the high music of thy spirit here 
Breathed but the language of another sphere, 

Unechoed round ; 
And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weep 

ing skies 
Some half-remembered strain of paradise 
Might sadly sound. 

Hast thou been answered ? — thou, that froBB 

the night. 
And from the voices of the tempest's might, 

And from the past, 
Wert seeking still some oracle's reply, 
To pour the secrets of man's destiny 

Forth on the blast ! — 

Hast thou been answered ? — thou, that through 

the gloom, 
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 

A cry didst send, 
So passionate and deep ? — to pierce, to move, 
To vrin back token of unburied love 

From buried friend ! 

And hast thou found where living waters burst ? 
Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst 

Of fever dreams ! 
Are the true fountains thine forevermore ? 
O, lured so long by shining mists that wore 

The light of streams ! 

Speak ! is it well with thee ? We call, as thout 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled 
brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed ! Art thou blessed and free ? 
— Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to thee 

Were silent all I 

Yet shall our hope rise, fanned by quenchleu 

faith, 
As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath. 

In Hght upsprings : 
Freed soul of song ! yes, thou hast found the 

sought ; 
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought 
On morning's wings. 

And we will dream it is thy joy we heai, 
When life's young music, ringing far and crear 
O'erflows the »Vy 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. &i 


JJ'o tears for thee ! the lingering gleam is ours — 


Rich thoughts a^nd sad, like faded rose letivea, 


fhou art for converse with all glorious pow**rs, 


heaping 


Never to die ! 


In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrino 




Or pass as if thy spirit notes came sighing 




From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky 




Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' tu • 


TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 


dying — 




« Tacete, tacete, suoni trionfanti I 


Of joy no more — bewildering harmony I 


Rievegliate in vano 'I cor che non p>»^ lii^ro^.' 




Wherefore and whither bear' at thou up my 




spirit, 


SECOND SIGHT. 


0-^ eagle wings, through ev^^y plume that 




thrill ? 


« Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspiied, 


Though joy's illusions mock their votariEt"- HATCmur 


[t hath no crown of victory to Niherit — 




Be still, triumphant harmony ! be still ! 


A MOURNFUL gift is mine, friends ! 




A mournful gift is mine ! 


Thine are no so^in^h Vr earth, thus proudly 


A murmur of the soul which blends 


swelling 


With the flow of song and wine. 


Into rich flood? of joy. It is but pain 




To wount »o h'gh, yet find on high no dwell- 


An eye that through the triumph's hour 


ing, 


Beholds the coming woe. 


to 8i»k «) fast, so heavily again ! 


And dwells upon the faded flower 




'Midst the rich summer's glow. 


No sounds for earth ? Yes, to young chieftain 




dying 


Ye smile to view fair faces bloom 


On his own battle field, at set of sun, 


Where the father's board is spread ; 


With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, 


I see the stillness and the gloom 


"Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guer- 


Of a home whence all are fled. 


don won. 






I see the withered garlands lie 


No sounds for earth ? Yes, for the martyr, lead- 


Forsaken on the earth. 


ing 


While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly 


Unto victorious death serenely on ; 


Through the ringing hall of mirth. 


For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding. 




Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 


I see the blood-red future stain 




On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 


But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 


And the bier amidst the bridal train 


Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain ! 


WTien they come with roses dressed. 


For power, for joy, high hone, and rapturous 




greeting, 


I hear the still small moan of time 


Thou wak'st lone thirst — be hushed, exult- 


Through the ivy branches made, 


ing strain ! 


Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 




With the sunshine stands arrayed. 


B« hushed, or breathe of grief ! — of exile yearn- 




ings 


The thunder of the seas I hear, 


Under the willows of the stranger shore ; 


The shriek along the wave. 


Br2athe of the soul's untold and restless burn- 


When the bark sweeps forth, and song and oiMt 


ings 


Salute the parting brave. 


For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. 






With every breeze a spirit sends 


Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping 


To me some warning sign, — 


Through the night hours, o'er wasted wealth 


A mournful gift is mine, friends ! 


to pine 


A mournful gift is mine I 



148 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



prophet heart ! thy grief, thy power 

To all deep souls belong — 
The shadow in the sunny hour, 

The wail in the mirthful song. 

Their sight is all too sadly cleai — 

For them a veil is riven ; 
Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 

Their home is but in heaven. 



THE SEA BIRD FLYING INLAND. 

♦* Thy path is not as mine ; where thou art blessed 
My spirit would but wither ; mine own grief 
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing 
Than all thy happiness." 

Hath the summer's breath, on the south wind 

borne, 
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn ? 
Hath it lured thee, bird ! from their sounding 

caves 
To the river shores where the osier waves ? 

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, 

Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a 

cell? 
Where the moss bears print of the wild deer's 

tread, 
And the heath like a royal robe is spread ? 

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea bird ! 
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, 
With the dancing of waters through copse and 

dell, 
And the bee's low tune in the foxglove's bell. 

Thou hast done well : O, the seas are lone. 
And the voice they send up hath a mournful 

tone 
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells, 
Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells. 

The proud bird rose as the words were said — 
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head. 
And the glance of his eye, in its bright dis- 
dain, 
Spoke him a child of the haughty main. 

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's 

breast. 
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest. 
0, who shall say to a spirit free — 
* TJieri lies the pathway of bliss for thee " ? 



THE SLEEPER. 

O, LIGHTLY, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed. 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from heaven, 

A gracious dewy cloud, 
A covering mantle given 

The weary to enshroud. 

O, lightly, lightly tread ! 

Revere the pale still brow, 
The meekly-drooping head. 

The long hair's willowy flow. 

Ye know not what ye do. 
That call the slumberer back 

From the world unseen by you 
Unto life's dim, faded track. 

Her soul is far away. 

In her childhood's land perchance. 
Where her young sisters play. 

Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old sweet native sound 

Her spirit haply weaves ; 
A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves ; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 
Long may her sojourn be 

In the music land of dreams ! 

Each voice of love is there, 
Each gleam of beauty fled, 

Each lost one still more fair — 
O, lightly, lightly tread 1 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HiUJL 

O DIM, forsaken mirror ! 
How many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished houiB 
Of the vawe cup and the song 

The song hath left no echo ; 

The brigh* wine hath >-*^''r quaffed ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. M 


And hushed is every silvery voice 


And e'en for this I call thee blessed. 


That lightly here hath laughed. 


The gentle poet's child ! 


mirror — lonely mirror ! 


--- 


Thou of the silent hall ! 
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's 


THE STAR OF THE MINE. 


bloom — 


From the deep chambers of a mine, 


Is this, too, vanished all ? 


With heavy gloom o'erspread, 




I saw a star at noontide shine 


It is, with the scattered garlands 


Serenely o'er my head. 


Of triumphs long ago, 




With the melodies of buried lyres. 


I had not seen it 'midst the glow 


With the faded rainbow's glow. 


Of the rich upper day ; 




But in that shadowy world below 


And for all the gorgeous pageants — 


How my heart blessed its ray ! 


Fo: ti.? glance of gem and plume, 




"For lamp and harp, and rosy wreath, 


And still, the farther from my sight 


* nd vase of rich perfume — 


Torches and lamps were borne. 




The purer, lovelier, seemed the light 


Now, dim, forsaken mirror ! 


That wore its beams unshorn. 


Thou giv'st but faintly back 




The quiet stars, and the sailing moon 


0, what is like that heavenly spark ? 


On her solitary track. 


— A friend's kind, steadfast eye ; 




Where, brightest when the world grows dail^ 


And thus with man's proud spirit 


Hope, cheer, and comfort lie I 


Thou tellest me 'twill be. 




When the forms and hues of this world 




fade 




From his memory, as from thee : 


WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 


And his heart's long-troubled waters 


SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA 


At last in stillness lie. 
Reflecting but the images 

Of the solemn world on high. 


Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form 

On thy proud soil, thou western world ! 
A watcher through each sign of storm. 




O'er freedom's flag unfurled. 




There, as before a shrine, to bow, 




Bid thy true sons their children lead : 


ro THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD 
BARTON, 


The language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 


THE QUAKER POET. 


The spirit reared in patriot fight. 




The virtue born of home and hearth, 


Happy thou art, the child of one 


There calmly throned, a holy light 


Who in each lowly flower, 


Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 


Each leaf that glances to the sun, 




Or trembles with the shower ; 


And let that work of England's hard, 




Sent through the blast and surge's roar, 


In each soft shadow of the sky, 


So girt with tranquil glory stand 


Or sparkle of the stream. 


For ages on thy shore ! 


Will guide tbyy kindling spirit's eye 




To trace the Love Supreme. 


Such, through all time, the greetings be. 




That with th' Atlantic billow sweep ! 


80 shall deep quiet fill thy breast. 


Telling the mighty and the free 


A joy in wood and wild ; 


Of brothers o'er the deep. 



»S0 MISCELLANEODiS I'OEMS. 




From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove 


A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA. 


By whispers breathing " less of earth thai 


WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. 


neaven." ^ 




Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom 


*Tis lone on the waters 


Thy step the path of joyous duty trode, 


When eve's mournful bell 


Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb. 


Sends forth to the sunset 


Where chastened thought may offer praise U 


A note of farewell ; 


God. 


When, borne with the shadows 




And winds as they sweep, 




There comes a fond memory 


TO AN ORPHAN. 


Of home o'er the deep ; 






Thou hast been reared too tenderly, 


When the wing of the sea bird 


Beloved too well and long, 


Is turned to her nest, 


Watched by too many a gentle eye : 


And the thought of the sailor 


Now look on life — be strong ! 


To all he loves best ! 






Too quiet seemed thy joys for change, 


'Tis Ions on the waters — 


Too holy and too deep ; 


That hour hath a spell 


Bright clouds, through summer skies that ranfq 


To bring back sweet voices, 


Seem ofttimes thus to sleep, — 


With words of farewell ! 






To sleep in silvery stillness bound, 




As things that ne'er may melt ; 




Yet gaze again — no trace is found 


TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER- 


To show thee where they dwelt. 


IN-LAW. 






This world hath no more love to give 


We miss thy voice while early flowers are blow- 


Like that which thou hast known ; 


ing. 


Yet the heart breaks not — we survive 


And the first blush of blossom clothes each 


Our treasures — and bear on. 


bough. 




And the spring sunshine round our home is 


But 0, too beautiful and blessed 


glowing 


Thy home of youth hath been ! 


Soft as thy smile ; thou shouldst be with us 


Where shall thy wing, poor bird ! find rest, 


now. 


Shut out from that sweet scene ? 


With us? We wrong thee by the earthly thought ; 


Kind voices from departed years 


Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art, 


Must haunt thee many a day ; 


Well might the glories of this world seem nought 


Looks that will smite the source of tears 


To the one promise given the pure in heart. 


Across thy soul must play. 


Yet wert thou blessed e'en here — 0, ever blessed 


Friends — now the altered or the dead, 


In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil 


And music that is gone, 


faith ! 


A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, 


Fbe silent joy that still o'erflowed thy breast 


And thou shalt wake — alone. 


Needed but guarding from all change, by 




death. 


Alone ! it is in that deep word 




That all thy sorrow lies ; 


So is it sealed to peace ! On thy clear brow 


How is the heart to courage stirred 


Nev3T was care one fleeting shade to cast ; 


By smiles from kindred eyes ! 


Ard thy calm days in brightness were to flow 




A holy stream, untroubled to the last. 






1 Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but •» boti 


Farewell ! thy life hath left surviving love 


before her death : — 

" Some feelings ar^ to mortals given 


A wealth of records, and sweet " feelings given," 


With less of earth in them than hraven '' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. tt. 


Ind are these lest ? — and have I said 


Yet my sick heart within me dies — 


To aught like thee — Be strong ? 


AVhere is my own blue sea ? 


- So bid the willow lift its head, 




And brave the tempest's wrong ! 


I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, 




I hear the whispering tree ; 


Hiou reed ! o'er which the storm hath passed — 


The echoes of my soul are mute. 


Thcu shaken with the wind ! 


— Where is my own blue sea ? 


■ )n one, o/ie friend thy weakness cast — 




Chere is but One to bind ! 






TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 


HYMN BY THE SICK BED OF A 


How is it that before mine eyes. 


MOTHER. 


"While gazing on thy mien, 




All my past years of life arise. 


Father! that in the olive shade, 


As in a mirror seen ? 


AYhen the dark hour came on, 


"What spell within thee hath been shrined 


Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, 


To image back my own deep mind ^ 


Strengthen thy Son ; 






Even as a song of other times 


0, by the anguish of that night. 


Can trouble memory's springs ; 


Send us down blessed relief ; 


Even as a sound of vesper chimes 


Or to the chastened, let thy might 


Can wake departed things ; 


Hallow this grief! 


Even as a scent of vernal flowers 




Hath records fraught with vanished lioiiig, - 


And Thou, that Avhen the starry sky 




Saw the dread strife begun, 


Such power is thine ! They come, the dea^ 


Didst teach adoring faith to cry. 


From the grave's bondage free, 


" Thy wiU be done ; " 


And smiling back the changed are led 




To look in love on thee ; 


By thy meek spirit, Thou of all 


And voices that are music flown 


That e'er have mourned the chief— 


Speak to me in the heart's full tone : 


Thou Savior ! if the stroke must fall, 




Hallow this grief! 


Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress — 




The thoughts of happier years — 




And a vain gush of tenderness 




O'erflows in childlike tears ; 


WHERE IS THE SEA? 


A passion which I may not stay. 




A sudden fount that must have way.- 


BONO OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 




|A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, 


But thou, the while — 0, almost strange, 


Ind called upon to admire its beauty, only replied — " TAe 


Mine imaged self ! it seems 


r*t— where is ill"] 


That on thy brow of peace no change 


Where is the sea ? — I languish here — 


Reflects my own swift dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 


Where is my own blue sea. 


Those lights and shadows in thrj face. 


With ail its barks in fleet career. 


And flags, and breezes free ? 


To see thee calm, while powers thus deep 




Afl'ection, Memory, Grief — 


I miss that voice of waves which first 


Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep 


Awoke my childhood's glee ; 


O'er a fraU aspen leaf! 


llie measured chime — the thundering burst — 


that the quiet of thine eye 


Where is my own blue sea ? 


Might sink there when the storm goes by I 


0, rich your myrtle's breath may rise, 


Yet look thou still serenely on. 


Soft, soft your winds may be ; 


And if sweet 'riends there be 



*62 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



That when my song and soul are gone 

Shall seek my form in thee, — 
Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 
To flee away and be at rest ! 



NO MORE. 

Wcmo*'*'. ! A harpstring's deep and breaking tone, 

A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, 
A dying echo of rich music gone, 

♦*reathe through those words — those mur- 
mers of farewell — 
No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

to feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 
No more ! 

A dirge-like sound ! To greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend. 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze — 
No more ! 

rhrough woods that shadowed our first years to 
rove, 
"With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 
And turn, and read our own heart's answer 
there — 

No more ! 

Words of despair ! — yet earth's, all earth's the 

woe 

Their passion breathes — the desolately deep ! 

That sound in heaven — O, image then the flow 

Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep — 

No more ! 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 
To see the beautiful from life depart. 

To wear impatiently a secret chain, 
To waste the untold riches of the heart — 
No more ! 

rhrough long, long years to seek, to strive, to 
yearn 
For hximan love ' — and never quench that 
thirst : 



1 ^'' Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimc eomme j^aime ! " was a 
*K"irnfe' ovpressiMi of Madani« de Stael's. 



To pour the soul out, winning no return. 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — 
No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean. 
To mourn the changed, the far away, thi 
dead; 
To send our troubled spirits through the unseei^ 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 
No more ! 

Words of triumphant music ! Bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air ; 
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks aifl 
done. 
To learn in joy — to struggle, to despair — 
No more ! 



THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET 

Where shall 1 find, in all this fleeting earth, 
This world of changes and farewells, a friend 

That will not fail me in his love and worth, 
Tender and firm, and faithful to the end ? 

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest — 
Long on vain idols its devotion shed ; 

Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best, 
And some deceived, and some are with tho 
dead. ♦ 

But thou, my Savior ! thou, my hope and trust. 
Faithful art thou when friends and joys de- 
part ; 
Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, 
And fix on thee, th' Unchanging One, m;^ 
heart ! 



PASSING AWAY. 

' Fasting away is written on the world, and all tl 
contains." 

It is written on the rose. 

In its glory's full array ; 
Read what those buds disclose — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the ikies 

Of the soft blue summer day ; 
It is traced in sunset's rly&s — 
"Passing away." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



55i 



It is written on the trees, 

As their young leaves glistening play, 
And on brighter things than these — 
♦* Passing away." 

It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ray 
lives, burns, and triumphs now — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on tne heart ; 
Alas ! that there Decay 
Should claim from Love a part — 
" Passing away." 

Friends, friends ! — O, shall we meet 

In a land of purer day, 
Where lovely things and sweet 
Pass not away ? 

Shall we know each other's eyes. 

And the thoughts that in them lay 
When we mingled sympathies 
" Passing away " ? 

O, if this may be so, 

Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
How blest from earth's vain show 
To pass away ! 



THE ANGLER.^ 

** I in these flowery meads would be ; 
These crystal streams should solace me j 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I with my angle would rejoice ; 

And angle on, and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave." 

IZAAK WaLTOK. 

rH>j that hast loved so long ana well 

The vale's deep, quiet streams. 
Where the pure water lilies dwell, 

Shedding forth tender gleams ; 
And o'er the pool the May fly's wing 
Glances in golden eves of spring ! 

O, lone and lovely haunts are thine ! 

Soft, soft the river flows. 
Wearing the shadow of thy line. 

The gloom cf alder boughs : 

I This, and tne following poem, were originally written 
or a work entitled Death^s Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric 
Watts. 

70 



And in the midst a richer hue, 

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue. 

And there but low sweet sounds are heard 

The whisper of the reed. 
The plashing trout, the rustling bird, 

The scythe upon the mead ; 
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near. 
There steals a step which mortals fear. 

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave 

At noon his panting breast ; 
'Tis not the bittern, by the wave 

Seeking her sedgy nest ; 
The air is filled with summer's breath. 
The young flowers laugh — yet look! ti 
Death ! 

But if, where silvery currents rove, 
Thy heart, grown still and sage. 

Hath learned to read the words of love 
That shine o'er nature's page ; 

If holy thoughts thy guests have been 

Under the shade of willows green • 

Then, lover of the silent hour 

By deep lone waters passed ! 
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power 

To cheer thee through the last ; 
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, 
Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell. 



DEATH AND THE WARRKR. 

" Ay, warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 

On a proud and fearless brow ! 
I am the lord of the lonely tomb, 

And a mightier one than thou ! 

•♦ Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief 

Bid her a long farewell ! 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that griei : 

Thou comest with me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming dee^ 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ; 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, 

Narrow, and cold, and chill ! " 

" Was tho voice I heard thy voice, O Deatn I 

And is thy day so near ? 
Then on the field shall my life's last breath 

^Mingle with victory's cheer ' 



554 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



« Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

Uni^er the Syrian sky. 

'' High hearts shall burn in the royal hall 
"When the minstrel names that spot ; 

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall, — 
Death, Death, I fear thee not ! " 

*' Warrior ! thou bear'st a haughty heart, 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part 

In the hour of victory's tide ? 

'* It may be far from thy steel-clad bands 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands, 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

'' It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some deep Paynim hold ; 
I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains 

Wherewith to tame the bold ! " 

Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest, 
If this indeed must be ; 
But the Cross is bound upon my breast. 
And I may not shrink for thee ! 

* Sound, clarion ! sound ! — for my vows are 
given 

To the cause of the holy shrine ; 
t bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 

O Death ! — and not to thine ! " 



SONG FOR AN AIR BY HUMMEL. 

O, IF thou wilt not give thine heart. 

Give back my own to me ; 
For if in thine I have no part, 

Why should mine dwell with thee ? * 

Yet no ! this mournful love of mine 

I will not from me cast ; 
Let me but dream 'twiU win me thine 

By its deep truth at la^t ! 

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live 
Through years without reply ? 

» The first verse of this song is a literal translation from 
!>• G«rmaii. 



— O, if thy heart thou wilt not giw. 
Give me a thought, a sigh 



TO THE 

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAl 

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSI, 
AND LAMENTED BT THE PEOPLE, OF OBEECS. 

" Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 
When griers full heart is fed by fame."— BTEOlTi 

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately 

pines, 
And with th' ancestral trophies of thy race ; 
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and 

shrines 
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place ! 
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been 

spread, 
Thou bright young stranger 'midst the mighty 

dead ' 

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given, 

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave, 

Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, 
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave : 

And thy dust blends with moxxld heroic there, 

With all that sanctifies th' inspiring air 

Vain voice of fame ! sad sound for those th? t 
weep ! 
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone 
Thy childhood dwells — whose thoughts a lec 
ord keep 
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone ; 
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth — 
A vernal promise, faded now from earth ! 

But a bright memory claims a proud regret — 
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs 

Of healing balm ; and she hath treasures yet 
Whose soul can number with love's holy 
things 

A name like thine ! Now, past all cloud or spot; 

A gem is hers, laid up where change is not. 



THE BROKEN CHAIN. 

I AM free ! — I have burst through my gallin|f 

chain, 
The life of young eagles is mine again; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



65k 



I may cletve with my bark the glad sounding 

sea, 
£ may rove where the wind roves — my path is 

free ! 

The streams dash in joy down the summer 

hill, 
The birds -oierce the depths of the sky at will, 
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze, — 
And is not my spirit as one of these ? 

O, the green earth with its wealth of flowers, 

And the voices that ring through its forest bow- 
ers. 

And the laughing glance of the foimts that 
shine, 

Lighting the valleys — all, all are mine ! 

[may urge through the desert my foaming 

steed, 
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed ; 
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee — 
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free ! 

Captive ! and hast thou then rent thy chain ? 
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the 

main? 
Yes ! there thy spirit may proudly soar. 
But must thou not mingle with throngs the 

more? 

Th« bird, when he pineth, may hush his song 
nU the hour when his heart shall again be 

strong ; 
But thou — canst thou turn in thy woe aside, 
\nd weep, 'midst thy brethren '' No, not for 

pride. 

May the fiery word from thy lip find way 
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring 

to day ? 
May the care that sits in thy weary breast 
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest ? 

No ! with the shaft in thy bosom borne. 
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn ; 
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see. 
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou'rt 
free. 

No ! thou art chained till thy race is run. 

By the power of all in the soul of one ; 

On thy heart, on thy lip, must *.he fetter 

be — 
Dreamer ! fond dreamer ! O, who 1' free ? 



THE SHADOW OF -A FLOWER. 

" La voila telle que la raort nous I'a faite." — Bossukt. 

[" Never was a philosophical imagination more beautifu 
than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and otliers, who 
discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, 
which were again raised up by the power of heat The 
ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsub- 
stantial and unodoriferous ; they are not roses whicli grow 
on rose trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like appari* 
tions, they are seen but for a m ment."— Curiosities of Lit- 
erature.] 

'TwAS a dream of olden days 

That Art, by some strange powei. 

The visionary form could raise 
From the ashes of a flower. 

That a shadow of the rose, 

By its owTi meek beauty bowed, 

Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose. 
Like pictures in a cloud. 

Or the hyacinth, to grace. 
As a second rainbow, spring ; 

Of summer's path a dreary trace, 
A fair, yet mournful thing ! 

For the glory of the bloom 

That a flush around it shed. 
And the soul within, the rich perfumw. 

Where were they ? Fled, all fled I 

Nought but the dim, faint line 
To speak of vanished hours. — 

Memory ! what are joys of thine ? 
— Shadows of buried flowers ! 



LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING 
ON A SKULL. 

Creature of air and light ! 
Emblem of that which will not fade or die ! 

Wilt thou not speed thy flight, 
To chase the south wind through the glowijii 
sky ? 

What lures thee thus to stay 

With silence and decay, 
Fixed on the vkreck of cold mortality ? 

The thoughts once chambered thei«. 
Have gathered up their treasures, and are go:3e 
Will the dust tell thee where 



S65 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


That which hath burst the prison house is flown ? 


The laughing sunshine hath not looked 


Rise, nursling of the day ! 


Into thy secret cave. 


If thou wouldst trace its way — 




Earth has no voice to make the secret known. 


Thy current makes no music — 




A hollow sound w^e hear. 


Who seeks the vanished bird 


A muffled voice of mystery. 


Near the deserted nest and broken shell ? 


And know that thou art near. 


Far thence, by us unheard, 




Be sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell : 


No brighter line of verdure 


Thou of the sur^shisie born, 


Follows thy lonely way ; 


Take the bright wings of morn ! 


No fairy moss or lily's cup 


Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruined 


Is freshened by thy play. 


ceU. 






The halcyon doth not seek thee, 




Her glorious wings to lave ; 


THE BELL AT SEA. 


Thou know'st no tint of the summer 


[The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast 


sky, 


c< Forfarshire, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, 


Thou dark and hidden wave ! 


nrhich was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the 




raves, when the tide rose above the rock. A lighthouse 
ft ?s since been erected there.] 


Yet once will day behold thee, 




When to the mighty sea. 


When the tide's billowy swell 


Fresh bursting from their cavemed yeinn, 


Had reached its height, 


Leap thy lone waters free. 


Then tolled the rock's lone bell 




Sternly by night. 


There wilt thou greet the sunshine 




For a moment, and be lost. 


Far over cliff and surge 


With all thy melancholy sounds, 


Swept the deep sound. 


In the ocean's billowy host. 


Making each wild wind's dirge 




Still more profound. 


0, art thou not, dark river ! 




Like the fearful thoughts untold 


Yet that funereal tone 


Which haply, in the hush of night, 


The sailor blessed. 


O'er many a soul have rolled ? 


Steering through darkness on • 




With fearless breast. 


Those earth-born strange misgivings — 




Who hath not felt their power ? 


E'en so may we, that float 
On life's wide sea. 


Yet who hath breathed them to his friendi 


E'en in his fondest hour ? 


Welcome each warning note, 




Stem though it be ! ' 






They hold no heart communion, 




They find no voice in song, 




They dimly follow far from earth 




The grave's departed throng. 


THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM. 




« Thou stream, 


Wild is their course and lonely. 


Whose source is inaccessibly profound. 


And fruitless in man's breast ; 


Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? 
— Thou Imagest my life." 


They come and go, and leave no trace 




Of their mysterious guest. 


Dabkly thou glidest onward. 




Thou deep and hidden wave ! 






Yet surely must their wanderings 




At length be like thy way ; 
Their shadows, as thy waters, lost 


1 It may be scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that 
'Jje stealing of this bell by a pirate forms the subject of 


'oBtbev'e spirited ballad, • The Inchcape Rock." 


In one bright flood of day ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



66' 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 

•For we are many in oui solitmdes." — Lamknt or Tasso. 

A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 

Were gathered in one spot ; 
The dwellers of a thousand homes — 

Yet 'midst them voice was not. 

The soldier and his chief were there — 

The mother and her child : 
The friends, the sisters of one hearth — 

None spoke — none moved — none smiled. 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heartsick hope deferred, 

They met — but silently. 

You might have heard the rustling leaf, 

The breeze's faintest sound, 
The shiver of an insect's wing, 

On the thick-peopled ground. 

Your voice to whispers would have died 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought, 

Such stillness not to break. 

What held the countless multitude 

Bound in that spell of peace ? 
How could the ever- sounding life 

Amid so many cease ? 

Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above, 
That linked and hushed those human souls 

In reverential love ? 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 
Hang on their indrawn breath ? 

Awe — the pale awe that freezes words ? 
Fear — the strong fear of death ? 

A mightier thing — Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there — yet hermits all, 

Thousands — but each apart. 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 

I** Les sarcnphages mSme chez les anciens, ne rapellent 
fue des idees guerri^res ou riantes : on voit des jeux, des 
janses, reptAsRntes en bas-relief sur les tombeaux." — Co- 
•inns.] 



O EVER-JOYOUS band 
Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand. 

Fixed in undying lines ! 

T^ou, with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath. 
And thou, from whose young lip and flute thi 
soul 

Of music seems to breathe ; 

And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties. 
And clustered fruitage, born of sunny hours. 

Under Italian skies ; 

Ye, that a thousand springs, 
And leafy summers with their odorous breath, 
May yet outlast, what do ye there, bright things' 

Mantling the place of death ? 

Of sunlight and soft air, 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been ? 

Is it to show how slight 
The bound that severs festivals and tombs, 
Music and silence, roses and the blight, 

Crowns and sepulchral glooms ? 

Or, when the father laid 
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep. 
When the friend visited the cj^ress shade 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought. 
In these rich images of summer mirth. 
These wine cups and gay wreaths, to lose tK« 
thought 

Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound, 
Ye flutes and lyres ! to tell me what I seek : 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine leaTM 
crowned. 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas ! for those that lay 
Down in the dust without their hope of old ! 
Backward they looked on life's rich banquet day, 

But all beyond was cold. 

Every sweet wood note then. 
And through the -olane trees every sunbeam 9 
glow. 



568 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Ajid each glad murmur from the homes of men, 


1 
But rest more sweet and still 


Made it more hard to go. 


Than ever nightfall gave, 




Our yearning hearts shall fill 


But we, when life grows dim, 


In the world beyond the grave. 


When its last melodies float o'er our way, 




Its changeful hues before us faintly swim. 


There shall no tempest blow, 


Its flitting lights decay ; 


No scorching noontide heat ; 




There shall be no more snow,' 


E'en though we bid farewell 


No weary, wandering feet. 


Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees. 




Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell 


So we lift our trusting eyes 


'Midst brighter things than these ; 


From the hills our fathers trodCt 




To the quiet of the skies. 


And think of deathless flowers, 


To the Sabbath of our God. 


Ajid of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 




And know the while, how little dream of ours 


Come to the sunset tree ! 


Can shadow forth of heaven. 


The day is past and gone ; 




The woodman's axe lies free, 




And the reaper's work is done. 


KVblNING SONG OF THE TYROLESE 




PEASANTS.' 




Come to the sunset tree ! 




The day is past and gone ; 




The woodman's axe lies free. 


THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 


And the reaper's work is done. 






Forget them not ! — though now theii 


The twilight star to heaven. 


name 


And the summer dew to flowers, 


Be but a mournful sound, 


And rest to us, is given 


Though by the hearth its utterance claim 


By the cool, soft evening hours* 


A stillness round. 


Sweet is the hour of rest ! 


Though for their sake this earth no moie 


Pleasant the wind's low sigh. 


As it hath been may be, 


And the gleaming of the west. 


And shadows, never marked before, 


And the turf whereon we lie ; 


Brood o'er each tree ; 


When the burden and the heat 


And though their image dim the sky, 


Of labor's task are o'er, 


Yet, yet forget them not ! 


And kindly voices greet 


Nor, where their love and life went by, 


The tired one at his door. 


Forsake the spot ! 


Come to the sunset tree ! 


They have a breathing influence there. 


The day is past and gone ; 


A charm, not elsewhere found ; 


The woodman's axe hes free. 


Sad — yet it sanctifies the air. 


And the reaper's work is done 


The stream, the ground. 


Yes ! tuneful is the sound 


Then, though the wind an altered tone 


That dwells in whispering boughs ; 


Through the young foliage bear, 


Welcome the freshness round. 


Though every flower of something gone 


And the gale that fans our brows ! 


A tinge may wear ; 


> The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us corae 


«' Wohl ihm, er ist liingegangen 


kt the sunset tree." — See Captain Sherer's interesting 


Wo kein schnoe nielir ist." 


fMu and Reflectiont during a Ramble in Germany 


Schiller's J^Tadowtsmek* TtiUmkla^t 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



'>ii\ 



Oj fly it not ! 'Noft-w'iless grief, 

Thus In their presence felt, 
A. record links to every leaf 

There, where they dwelt. 

ritill trace the path which knew their tread, 

Still tend their garden bower, 
Still comnriune with the holy dead 

In each lone hour ! 

The holy dead ! — O, blessed we are, 

That we may call them so, 
And to their image look afar 

Through all our woe ! 

Blessed, that the things they loved on earth 

As relics we may hold, 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth 

By springs untold ! 

Blessed, that a deep and chastening power 

Thus o'er our souls is given. 
If but to bird, or song, or flower, 

Yet all for heaven ! 



HE WALKED WITH GOD. 

GENESIS V. XXIV. 

'♦ These two little pieces," (" He walked with God," and 
•• TTie Rod of Aaron,") says the author in one of her letters, 
* are part of a collection I think of formin", to be called Sa- 
ired Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and 
k> go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, 
ID those far more deeply afTecting ones of the New." Two 
jthera (" The Voice of God " and " The Fountain of Ma- 
nh ") are subjoined, as having been probably intended to 
'brm a part of the same series.] 

He walked with God, in holy joy. 

While yet his days were few ; 
The deep, glad spirit of the boy 

To ^ove and reverence grew. 
Whether, each nightly star to count. 

The ancient hills he trode, 
Or sought the flowers by stream and fount — 

Alike he walked with God. 

The graver noon of manhood came, 

The fall of cares and fears : 
One voice was in his heart — the same 

It heard through childhood's years. 
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains. 

O'er his green-pasture sod, 
k. shepherd king on Eastern plains — 

The patriarch walked with God. 



And calmly, brightly that pure Me 

Melted from earth away ; 
No cloud it knew, no parting Btnfe, 

No sorrowful decay : 
He bowed him not, like all beside, 

Unto the spoiler's rod, 
But joined at once the glorified, 

Where angels walk with God I 

So let tis walk ! The night must como 

To us that comes to all ; 
We through the darkness must go homsi, 

Hearing the trumpet's call. 
Closed is the path forevermore 

Which without death he trode ; 
Not so that way, wherein of yore 

His footsteps walked with God I 



THE ROD OF AARON. 

NUMBERS XVII. VHI. 

Was it the sigh of the southern gale 
That flushed the almond bough ? 

Brightest and first the young spring to hail. 
Still its red blossoms glow. 

Was it the simshine that woke its flowers 

With a kindling look of love ? 
O, far and deep, and through hidden bowers, 

That smile of heaven can rove ! 

No ! from the breeze and the living light 

Shut was the sapless rod ; 
But it felt in the stillness a secret might, 

And thrilled to the breath of God. 

E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air. 

O'er our glad spirits move ; 
And all such things as are good and fair 

Be the blossoms, its track that prove ! 



THE VOICE OF GOD. 

: heard thy Toice in the garden, an4 I was afraid."— GBir, \& u 

Amidst the thrilling leaves. Thy voice 

At evening's fall drew near ; 
Father ! and did not man rejoice 

That blessed sound to hear ? 



»bO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Did not his heart within him bum. 


When thou wouldst bathe > is leet 


Touched by the solemn tone ? 


With odors richly sweet, 


Not so ! — for, never to return, 


And many a shower of woman's burning tear, 


Its purity was gone. 


And dry them with that hair. 




Brought low the dust to weu. 


Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower, 


From the croMTied beauty of its fe?tal yew, — > 


His spirit shook with dread, 




And called the cedars, in that hour, 


Did he reject thee then, 


To veil his conscious head. 


While the sharp scorn of men 




On thy once bright and stately head waa cusl i 


0, in each wind, each fountain flow. 


No ! from the Savior's mien 


Each whisper of the shade, 


A solemn light serene 


Grant me, my God ! thy voice to know, 


Bore to thy soul the peace of Chod at last. 


And not to be afraid ! 






For thee their smiles no more 




Familiar faces wore ; 




Voices, once kind, had lean.ed the stranger'i 


THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. 


tone : 




Who raised thee up, and bound 


" And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the 
t aters of Marah, for they were bitter. 


Thy silent spirit's wound ? — 


» And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall 


He, from all guilt the stainle&s, he alone ! 


we drink? 




"And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, 




which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made 


But which, erring child. 


jweet" — Exodus xv. 23-25. 


From home so long beguiled ! — 


Where is the tree the prophet threw 


Which of thine offerings won thos3 words oi 


Into the bitter wave ? 


Heaven, 


Left it no scion where it grew. 


That o'er the bruis6d reed. 


The thirsting soul to save ? 


Condemned of earth to bleed. 




In music passed, "Thy sins are aU foigifen " r 


Hath nature lost the hidden power 




Its precious foliage shed ? 


Was it that perfume, fraught 


Is there no distant Eastern bower 


With balm and incense, brought 


With such sweet leaves o'erspread. 


From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest ? 




Or that fast-flowing rain 


Nay, wherefore ask ? — since gifts are ours 


Of tears, which not in vain, ' 


Which yet may well imbue 


To Him who scorned not tears, thy woes con- 


Earth's many-troubled founts with showers 


fessed ? 


Of heaven's own balmy dew. 






No ! not by these restored 


0, mingled with the cup of grief 


Unto thy Father's board. 


Let faith's deep spirit be ! 


Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, wa« inade ; 


Ajid every prayer shall win a leaf 


But, costlier in his eyes, 


From that blessed healing tree ! 


By that blessed sacrifice. 





Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before him laid. 


THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. 


« 


8T. LUKE VII. XXXVII-IX. 


THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. 


Thou that with pallid cheek. 


ON CHANTRBT'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDBAI. 


And eyes in sadness meek, 




knd. faded locks that humbly swept the ground. 


[" The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral to 


From thy long wanderings won, 


the memory of the two children of Mrs. Robinson, is one of 
the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given 


Before the all-healing Son, 


a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feel- 


Did'st bow thee to the earth — lost and found ! 


ings, and admires and is touched only at their biddirg 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



66. 



might have thought, from any previous e.\perience, that it 
ras out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument 
is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The 
two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in 
wch otlier's arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleep- 
ing : — 

'But something lies 
Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.' 

It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that 
infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching 
interest ; and this, and the loveliness of the children, the 
.incertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadow- 
ing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened 
— their hovering, as it were, upon the ccnfines of life, as if 
they might still be recalled — all conspire to render the last 
feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply aflfect- 
ing. They were the only children of their mother, and she 
was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father 
hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one 
of the side aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to dis- 
tract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be 
contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that 
*abdu&d tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief m 
words, harmonizes vith the character of the whole It is 
as follows : — 

' Sacred to the Memory of 

Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children 

Of the late Rev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife, 

Their affectionate Mother, 

In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence. 

Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary, 

In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance 

That " of such is the kingdom of God." ' 1 A. N."] 

Fair images of sleep, 

Hallowed, and soft, and deep, 
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies. 

Like moonlight on shut bells 

Of flowers in mossy dells, 
Filled with the hush cf night and summer 
skies ! 

How many hearts have felt 

Your silent beavty melt 
Their strength to gushi^.?; tenderness away ! 

How many sudde'i tears, 

From depths o^ buried yeari 
All freshly burstlug, have c/*afftssed you' dway ! 

How many eyes wi'l ahed 

Still, o'er your marble bed, 
Such drops from memory's tro'iVied fountains 
wrung — , 

While hope hath blights to bear. 

While love breathes mortal air, 
While roses perish ere to glory sprung ! 

Yet from a voiceless home. 
If some sad mother come 
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest, 

From The Offering, an American annuaL 

71 



As o'er the cheek's warm glow, 
And the sweet breathings low, 
Of babes that grew and faded on hex ;reast ; 

If then the dove-like tone 

Of those faint murmurs gone 
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return ; 

If for the soft bright hair. 

And brow and bosom fair, 
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn ; 

O gentle forms, intwined 

Like tendrils, which the wind 
May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink ! 

Send from your calm profound 

A still, small voice — a sound 
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink ! 

By all the pure, meek mind 

In your pale beauty shrined, 
B)-- childhood's love — too bright a bloom to dU 

O'er her worn spirit shed, 

O fairest, holiest dead ! 
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality ! 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortality. 
Away ! to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring I 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twiik 

Into so proud a wreath, 
For that resplendent gift of thine 

Heroes have smiled in death • 
Give me from some kind hana a liower, 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 
Can bid each life pulse beat. 

As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 
Calling the brave to meet : 

But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, 

By words of home-born love be blessed 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye. 
To the sick heart that doth bat Ion;; 

For aid, for sympathy — 



5ri2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool, fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need . 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ? — 
Not unto thee — O, not to thee ! 



A. THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 

Dreamer ! and wouldst thou know 
1 1 love goes with us to the viewless bourn ? 
Wouldst thou bear hence th' unfathomed source 
of woe 

In thy heart's lonely urn ? 

What hath it been to thee, 
ITiat power, the dweller of thy secret breast ? 
A dDve sent forth across a stormy sea, 

Finding no place of rest j 

A precious odor cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music uttered to the blast. 

And winning no reply. 

Even were such answer thine, 
Wouldst thou be blessed ? Too sleepless, too 

profound. 
Are the soul's hidden springs ; there is no line 

Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail 
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's 

power ? 
As thine own cheek, before high thought grows 
pale 
In some o'erwhelming hour. 

Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot. 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a 
link, 

Where thy beloved are not r 

Is not thy very soul 
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed. 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, 

Bows down thy weary head ? 

Aix'3 wouldst thou bear all this — 
The hurdei and the shadow of thy life' — 



To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss 
With earthly feelings' strife ? 

Not thus, not thus — O, no ! 
Not veiled and mantled with dim clouds of caro 
That spirit of my soul should with me go 

To breathe celestial air. 

But as the skylark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, 
As to its place the flower seed findeth wings. 

So must love mount to heaven ! 

Yainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulsi 
give. 

As light might wake a iyre. 

And O, its blessings there^ 
Showered like rich balsam forth on some deal 

head, 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 

A joy of sunlight shed. 

Let me, then — let me dream 
That love goes with us to the shore unkno .vn ; 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be thrown ! 



THE VOICE OF MUSIC. 

" striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bonnd. 

Childe Uaboux 

Whence is the might of thy master spell ? 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound ! and tell : 
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, 
Passionate visions of love and death r 



How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh. 
Words and low tones from the days gone l:y- 
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell ? — 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound ! and telL 

What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring 
In sudden gushes the tears to bring ? 
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee 
Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee } 

Vain are those tears ! — vain and fruitless all - 
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall ; 
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, 
For a brighter home while the spi"-* v'janis I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



sej 



Something of mystery there surely dwells, 
Waiting tliy touch, in our bosom cells ; 
Something that finds not its ans-.ver here — 
A. chain to be clasped in another sphere. 

Therefore a current of sadness deep 

Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to 

sweep, 
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer 

sky — 
L'k* % name of the dead when the wind foams 

high ! 

^et speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught 
vVith vain remembrance and troubled thought ; 
Sjieak ' for thou tellest my soul that its birth 
Links it with regions more bright than earth. 



THE ANGEL'S GREETING. 

" Hark ! — they whisper I — Angels say, 
Sister spirit t come away." Pope. 

Come to the land of peace ! 
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, 
The shadow passes from the soul away. 

The sounds of weeping cease. 

Fear hath no dwelling there ! 
Come to the mingling of repose and love. 
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove 

Through the celestial air. 

Come to the bright, and blest, 
And crowned forever ! 'Midst that shining band, 
Gathered to Heaven's own wreath from every 
land, 

Thy spirit shall find rest ! 

Thou hast been long alone : 
Dome to thy mother ! On the Sabbath shore. 
The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once 
more 

Sh all take its wearied one. 

In silence wert thou left : 
dome to thy sisters ! Joyously again 
All the home voices, blent in one sweet strain. 

Shall greet their long bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough : 
Come to thy father ! It is finished now ; 

Thy tears have all been shed. 



In thy divine abode 
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark traca 
And O, bright victory — death by love no place 

Come, spirit ! to thy God. 



A FAREWELL TO WAIJES, 

FOR THE MEI.ODT CALLED "THE ASH OROVE," ON ItAf.VO 
THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDBEN. 

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear — 

Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land ! 

On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure moun- 
tain air. 

On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's 
free hand, 

From the love of my soul with my tears it ii 
shed. 

As I leave thee, green land of my home and mj 
dead ! 

I bless thee ! — yet not for the beauty which 

dwells 
In the heart of thy hiUs, on the rocks of thy 

shore ; 
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells. 
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore : 
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled — 
Green land, poet land of my home and my dead - 

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat 
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies ; 
For thy cottage hearths burning the straiiger to 

greet. 
For the soul that shines forth from thy children's 

kind eyes ! 
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be 

spread. 
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my 

dead ! 



IMPROMPTU LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVINO FROM HE» BOMjI 
FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS. 

Ye tell me not of birds and bees. 

Not of the summer's murmuring trees. 

Not of the streams and woodland bowers 

A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers ! 

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring, 

Of one still bright, still flowing spring — 

A fount of kindness ever new. 

In a friend's heart, the good and true. 



tti 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A PARTING SONG. 

O mes amis I rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers I mon ameyest 
empreinte." — Corinne. 

When will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and tlie river is passing away — 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burdened with tender 
thought. 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is j&lled with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread — 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream. 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 
So let it be ! 



WE RETURN NO MORE ! » 

" When I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring." 
CniLDE Harold. 

•* We return ! — we return ! — we return no 

more ! " 
Bo comes the song to the mountain shore 



1 Ha til! — ha til! — ha til mi tulidle! — "we return! — 
»ve retuni! — we return no more!" — the burden of the 
Highland song of emigration. 



From those that are leaving their Highlard horn* 

For a world far over the blue sea's foam : 

'« We return no more ! " and through cave and 

dell 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewelL 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return m 

more ! " 
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er ; 
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, 
Where lovely things with their light depart : 
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is forever gone. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no 

more ! " 
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er ? 
When the passionate soul of the night bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away ? 
When the glory from sunset's robe hath passed, 
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast ? 

No ! It is not the rose that returns no more ; 
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore ; 
And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours ; 
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, 
Nor the frail flushed leaves which the wild wind 
strews. 

♦• We return ! — we return ! — we return vo 

more ! " 
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore ' 
Those wings that follow the southern breeze, 
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas ? 
Yes ! from the lands of the vine and palm 
They come, with the sunshine, when waves groT 

calm. 

" But we ! — we return ! — we return no more ! ' 
The heart's young dreams, w^hen their spring ll 

o'er ; 
The love it hath poured so freely forth — 
The boundless trust in ideal worth ; 
The faith in affection — deep, fond, yet vain — 
T/tese are the lost that return not again ! 



TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER 

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffered ! 

Unto feeling deep and strong. 
Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string — 

I know it by thy song ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



661 



rhou hast loved — it may oe vainly — 

But well — O, but too well ! 
rhou hast suffered all that woman's or east 

May bear — but must not tell. 

rhou hast wept, and thou hast parted 

Thou hast been forsaken long, 
rhou hast watched for steps that came not 
back - 

I know it t?y thy song ; 

Hy the low, clear silvery gusning 

Of its music from thy breast ; 
By the quivering of its liuie-like swell — 

A. sound of the heart's unrest ; 

B; its fond and plaintive lingering 

On each word of grief so long, 
O, thou hast loved and suffered much — 

I know it by thy song ! 



LIGHTS AND SHADES. 

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light ; 

The darkest wave hath light foam near it ; 
And twinkles through the cloudiest night 

Some solitary star to cheer it. 

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom ; 

The saddest heart is not all sadness , 
And sweetly o'er the darkest doom 

There shines some lingering beam of gladness. 

Despair is never quite despair ; 

Nor life nor death the future closes , 
And round the shadowy brow of Care 

Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses. 

[These spirited and graceful stanzas appeared in the 
" Forget-me-Not " for 1829, and are here for the first time 
admitted into the general collection of the author's works. 
In all probability, they are an early effusion, and poured 
forth when the poetry of Moore was fresh in her mind.] 



THE PALMER. 

♦• The faded palm branch in his hand 
Showed pilgrim frofa t^e Holy Lan I. ' Scott. 

Akt thou come from the far-off land at last ? 

Thcu that hast wandered long ! 
Vlwu art come to a home whence the smile hath 



Vith the merry voice of song. 



For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 
Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 

They are parted, e'en as waters part, 
To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 
From thine eye the light of morn 

And the shades of thought o'erhang lay brow, 
And thy check with life is worn. 

Say, what hast thou brought from The distaiil 
shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay ? 
Hast thou treasure to \\an thee joys once more 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way ? 

" I have brought but the palm branch in my hand, 
Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 

I have won but high thought in the Holy Lane? 
Yet I count not too dear the cost ! 

" I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee 

Are the memories they give me back ! 

" They speak of toil, and of high emprisr 

As in words of solemn cheer ; 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt and fear. 

"They speak of scenes which have now b* 
come 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where my spirit finds a glorious home, 

And the love of my heart can rest. 

*• The colors pass not from these away, 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
O, beyond all treasures that know decay, 

Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 

" A rich light thence o'er my life's decliro, 

An inborn light is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy shni:^. 

I bewail not my bright days past ! " 



THE CHILD'S FIRST GIUEF. 

O. jALL my brother back to me ! 

I cannot play alone ; 
The summer comes with flower and bee- 

Where is my brother gone ? 



*GG 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



" The b atterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbenra's track ; 
[ care not now to chase its flight — 

O, call my brother back ! 

' The flowers run wild — tha flowers we sowed 

Around our garden tree ; 
'.)ur vine is drooping with its load — 

O, call him back to me ! " 

* He would not hear thy voice, fair child ? 

He may not come to thee ; 
'"he face that once like spring time smiled 

On earth no more thou'lt see. 

A rose's brief, bright life of joy. 
Such unto him was given : 
firo — thou must play alone, my boy ! 
Thy brother is in heaven." 

And has he left his birds and flowers ? 
And must I call in vain ? 
And through the long, long summer hours, 
Will he not come again ? 

' And by the brook and in the glade 

Are all our wanderings o'er ? 
O, while my brother with me played, 
Would I had loved him more ! " 



TO THE NEW BORN.» 

JL BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many 

hopes and fears ! 
A rainbow welcome thine hath been, of mingled 

smiles and tears. 
Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and 

chastened heart. 
For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all 

precious as thou art ! 

\ see thee not asleep, fair boy ! upon thy moth- 
er's breast, 

Vet well I know how guarded there shall be thy 
rosy rest ; 

\nd how her soul with love, and prayer, and 
gladness will o'erflow, 

•Vliile bending o'er thy soft-sealed eyes, thou 
dear one ! well I know. 

' Addressed tn the c\ ild of her eldest bntlier. 



A blessing on thy gentle head ! and blessed thot 

art in truth. 
For a home where God is felt awaits thy child 

hood and thy youth : 
Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dweL 

as light and air, 
And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germn 

now folded there. 

Smile on thy mother ! while she feels that unto 

her is given, 
In that young dayspring glance, the pledge of a 

soul to rear for Heaven ! 
Smile ! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy 

o'er thy wakening shed ! 
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy ! upon 

thy head ! 



THE DEATH SONG OF ALCESTIS. 

She came forth in her bridal robes arrayed, 
And 'midst the graceful statues, round the hah 
Shedding the calm of their celestial mien. 
Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they : 
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, 
And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death ! 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, till that hout 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness. 
Had burdened her full soul. But now, O, no\? 
Its time was come — and from the spirit's depth* 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice in triumph broke. 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure aii 
Came floating through that hall — the Grecian 

air. 
Laden with music — flute notes from the vale*, 
Echoes of song — the last sweet sounds af life ! 
And the glad sunsliine of the golden clime 
Streamed, as a i^oyal mantle, round her form — 
The glorified of love ! But she — she locked 
Only on him for whom 'twas joy to die. 
Deep — deepest, holiest joy ! Or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tidfc 
Of her unswerving soul — 'twas bu^^ i thought 
That owned the summer loveliness .ife 
For hi?n a worthy off"ering ! So she stood, 
Rapt in bright silence, as entranced a while ; 
Till her eve kuidled, and hor quivering fiwun* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 6&) 


With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, 


" Take me to thy warm heart once laoie ! 


\b the pale priestess trembles to the breath 


Night falls — my pulse beats low : 


Of inborn oracles ! Then flushed her cheek, 


Seek not to quicken, to restore - - 


And all the triumph, all the agony, 


Joy is in every pang. I go, I go ! 


Borne on the battling waves of love and death. 




AH from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 


'« I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 


Burst like a fount of fire. 


I meet thy fond look still ; 




Keen is the strife of love and death ; 


♦' I go, I go ! 


Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thriU. 


Thou sun ! thou golden sun ! I go 




Far from thy light to dwell : 


"Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, 


Thou Shalt not find my place below, 


Though mists o'ershade mine eye ! 


Cim is that world — bright sun of Greece, fare- 


— Sing, Paean ! sing a conqueror's song I 


well ! 


For thee, for thee^ my spirit's lord, I die ! " 


« The laurel and tho glorious rose 




Thy glad beam yet may see ; 




But where no purple summer glows. 




O'er the dark wave / haste from them and thee. 






THE HOME OF LOVE. 


♦* Yet doth my spirit faint to part ? 




— I mourn thee not, sun ! 


Thou mov'st in visions. Love ! Around thy way, 


Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart : 


E'en through this world's rough path and 


'^ing me triumphal songs ! — my crown is won ! 


changeful day, 




Forever floats a gleam — 


" Let not a voice of weeping rise — 


Not from the realms of moonlight or the mom, 


My heart is girt with power ! 


But thine own soul's illumined chambers born 


Let the green earth and festal skies 


The coloring of a dream ! 


Laugh, as to grace a conqueror's closing hour ! 






Love ! shall I read thy dream ? 0, is it not 


«' For thee, for thee my bosom's lord ! 


All of some sheltering wood-imbosomed spot — 


Thee, my soul's loved ! I die ; 


A bower for thee and thine ? 


Thine is the torch of life restored, 


Yes ! lone and lowly is that home ; yet there 


Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory ! 


Something of heaven in the transparent air 




Makes every flower divine. 


•« Now may the boundless love, that lay 




Unfathomed still before, 


Something that mellows and that glorifies 


In one consuming burst find way — 


Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 


[n one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! 


As o'er some blessed isle ; 




E'en like the soft and spiritual glow 


" Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is 


Kindling rich woods, whereon th etherefei 


note ! 


bow 


Its glory and its might — 


Sleeps lovingly a while 


Are they not written on my brow ? 




A»': will that image ever quit thy sight ? 


The very whispers of the wind have there 




A flute like harmony, that seems to bear 


« No ! deathless in thy faithful breast, 


Greeting from some bright shore. 


There shall my memory keep 


Where none have said farewell! — where nl 


Its own bright altar-place of rest. 


decay 


iVhile o'er my grave the cypress branches w^ep. 


Lends the faint crimson to the dying day ; 




Where the storm's might is o'er. 


« 0, the glad light ! — the light is fair. 




The soft breeze warm and free ; 


And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, 


And rich notes fill the scented air, 


In the deep sanctuary of one true Ireast 


Knd all are gifts — my love's last gilts to thee ! 


Hidden from earthly ill : 



>68 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Ihere 't^'ouldst thou watch the homeward step, 

whose sound, 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round. 
Thine inmost soul can thrill. 

There by the hearth should many a glorious 

page. 
From mind to mind the immortal heritage. 

For thee its treasures pour ; 
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, 
Or dearer interchange of playful word, 

Affection's household lore. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 
Hie melody of hearts in heavenly air, 

Thence duly should arise ; 
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath. 
Of spirits, not to be disjoined by death. 

Up to the starry skies. 

There, dost thou weU. believe, no storm should 

come 
To mar the stillness of that angel home ; 

There should thy slumbers be 
Weighed down with honey dew, serenely blessed, 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 

Under some balmy tree. 

Love ! Love ! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below — 

Here, where bright things must die ? 
O thou ! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 

Gifts of infinity ! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love ! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above. 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine tree, or thy gracious rose, 
la their sweet shade can yield thee no re- 
pose. 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 

Ajid as a flower, with some fine sense im- 
bued, 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude. 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyrestringa quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming ill : 

O, canst thou dream of rest ? 

Bear up thy dream ! thou mighty and thou 

weak ! 
Reart, strorg as death, yet as a reed to break — 
As a flame, tempest-swaved ! 



He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its trouble* 
course. 
He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity ? — He whose searching eye 
Reads all the secrets of thine agony ? — 

O, pray to be forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness. 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 

"La vue d'une fleur caresse mon imaginafion, et flatte mes teni 
a un point inexprimable. Sous le tranquille abri du toit paternel 
j'etais nourrie des renfance avec des fleurs et des livres ; dam 
Tetroite enceinte d'une prison, au milieu des fers imposies par la 
tyrannie, j'oublie I'injustice des hommes, leurs soltises et met 
maux, avec des livres et des fleurs." 

Come ! let me make a sunny realm around thee 

Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and 

flowers. 

With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound 

thee — 

The ravelled coil of this world's feverish hours. 

The soul of song is in these deathless pages, 
Even as the odor in the flower enshrined; 

Here the crowned spirits of departed ages 
Have left the silent melodies of mind. 

Tlieir thoughts, that strove with time, and 
change, and anguish. 
For some high place where faith her wing 
might rest, 
Are burning here — a flame that may not lan- 
guish — 
Still pointing upward to that bright hill's 
crest ! 

Their grief, the veiled infinity exploring 

For treasures lost, is here ; — their boundlesi 
love, 

Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring 
On all things round, and clasping all above. 

And the bright beings, their owm hearts' crea- 
tions. 
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing 
still ; 
Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations 

Are here, and victories of prevaUing will * 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



66b 



Listen ! O, listen ! let their high words cheer 
thee ! 
Their swan-like music ringing through all 
woes ; 
ijet my voice bring their holy influence near 
thee — 
The Elysian air of their divine repose ! 

Or wouldst thou turn to earth ? Not earth all 
furrowed 
By the old traces of man's toil and care, 
But the green peaceful world that never sor- 
rowed, 
ITae world of leaves, and dews, and summer 
air! 

Look on these flowers ! as o'er an altar shed- 
ding, 
O'er MUton's page, soft light from colored 
urns ! 
They are the links, man's heart to nature wed- 
ding, 
When to her breast the prodigal returns. 

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles. 
Fresh banks of many a low-voiced, hidden 
stream. 
Where the sweet star of eve looks down and 
mingles 
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. 

They are from where the soft winds play in 

gladness, 
Covering the txirf with flowery blossom 

showers ; 
Too richly dowered, O friend ! are we for 

sadness — 
Look on an empire — mind and nature — ours ! 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA 
ATTENDED BY ANGELS. 

" How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
How bright that heaven-directed glance 
— Waft her to glory, winged powers 1 

Ere sorrow be renewed, 
And intercourse with mortal hours 
Bring back a humbler mood I " Wordswortu. 

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming. 

Wear yet so deep a calm ? O child of song ! 
Tft not the music land a world of dreaming, 
W'«re forms of sad, bewOdering beauty 
hrong ? 

72 



Hath it not sounds from voices long departed ? 
Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear ? 
Low haunting whispers, which the weary 
hearted. 
Stealing 'midst crowds away, have wept t# 
hear ? 

No, not to thee ! Thy spirit, meek, yet queenly 
On its own starry height, beyond all this. 

Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, 

Breathes no faint undertone through songs ot 
bliss. 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ethei 
swelling. 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from 
the skies ; 
Bright guests ! even such as left of yore theu 
dwelling 
For the deep cedar shades of paradise ! 

What strain ? 0, not the nightingale's, when 
showering 
Her own heart's lifedrops on the burning lay, 
She stirs the young woods in the days of flow- 
ering. 
And pours her strength, but not her grief 
away ; 

And not the exile's — when, 'midst lonely bil- 
lows. 
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung, 
Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows. 
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp la 
hung; 

And not the pilgrim's — though his thoughts be 
holy. 
And sweet his ave song when day grows 
dim; 
Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slo^vly, 
Something of sadness floats through that low 
hymn. 

But thou ! — the spirit which at eve is filling 
All the hushed air and reverential sky — 

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rap 
ture thrilling — 
This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 

This bears up high those breathings of devotiotj 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gusb 
free; 

Therefore no world of snd and vain emotion 
Is the dream-haunted music land for thee. 



i70 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMfe. 



17IE BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE. 

SUOQK8TED BT A PICTUKE OF EASTLAKE'S. 

Dark chieftain of tlie heath and height ! 
Wild feaster on the hills by night ! 
Seest thou the stormy sunset's glow 
Flung back by glancing spears below ? 
Now for one strife of stern despair ! 
The foe hath tracked thee to thy lair. 

Thou, against whom the voice of blood 
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood ; 
And in whose dreams a moan should be, 
Not of the water, nor the tree ; 
Haply thine own last hour is nigh, — 
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die. 

There's one that pale beside thee stands, 
More true than all thy mountain bands ! 
She will not shrink in doubt and dread 
When the balls whistle round thy head : 
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye 
No longer may to hers reply. 

O, many a soft and quiet grace 
Hath faded from her form and face ; 
And many a thought, the fitting guest 
Of woman's meek, religious breast. 
Hath perished in her wanderings wide, 
Through the deep forests by thy side. 

Yet, mournfully surviving all, 

A flower upon a ruin's wall — 

A friendless thing, whose lot is cast 

Of lovely ones to be the last — 

Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, 

Thine is her lone devotion still. 

And O, not wholly lost the heart 
Where that undying love hath part ; 
Not worthless all, though far and long 
From home estranged, and guided wrong ; 
Yet may its depths by Heaven be stirred, 
Its prayer for thee be poured and heard ! 



THE CHIL]>'S RETURN FROM THE 
WOODLANDS. 

ICOOXSTKD BT A PICTUEE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE'S. 

" All good and gniltlees as thou art, 
8ome transient griffs will touch thy heart — 
Griefs that along thy altered face 
Will breathe a more subduing grace 
Than even those looks of joy that lie 
On the soft cheek of infancy." Wilson. 



Hast thou been in the woods with the hone^ 

bee ? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures 

free ? 
With the hare through the copses and dingles 

wild ? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? 
Yes ! the light fall of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her moss^ aeat 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells. 
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. 

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique 

song 
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng : 
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim. 
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim ; 
These are old words, that have made each grove 
A dreaming haunt for romance and love — 
Each sunny bank, where faint odors He, 
A place for the gushings of poesy. 

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy 

lore 
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o er : 
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep 
Like hidden gems in the flower urns deep ; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell. 
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbrien 

shed. 
And the beauty that bows the wood hyacintb'i 

head. 

O happy child ! in thy fawn-like glee, 
What is remembrance or thought to thee ? 
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, 
O'er thy green pathway their colors fling ; 
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon — 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature hath mines of such wealth — and hou 
Never will prize its delights as now ! 

For a day is coming to quell the tone 

That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one ! 

And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, 

Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 

Into the stillness of autumn skies ; 

And to teach thee that grief hath her needl'u 

part 
'Midst the hidden things of each human heart 

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child ! for this i 
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 67 


Such be thy portion ! — the bliss to look, 


«« Nor shut mine ear to the song of old. 


With a reverent spirit, through nature's book ; 


Though its notes the pang renew. 


By fount, by forest, by river's line, 


— Such memories deep in my heart I hold, 


To track the paths of a love divine ; 


To keep it pure and true. 


To read its deep meanings — to see and hear 




Qod in *»arth's garden — and not to fear ! 


" By the holy instinct of my heart, 




By the hope that bears me on. 




I have stiU my own undying part 




In the deep affection gone. 


THE FAITH OF LOVE. 






«« By the presence that about me seemb 


rKoir hast watched beside the bed of death, 


Through night and day to dwell, 


fearless human Love ! 


Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams ! 


Thy lip received the last, faint breath. 


— I have breathed no last farewell ! " 


Ere the spirit fli^d above. 




Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier. 




In a low and farewell tone ; 


THE SISTER'S DREAM. 


Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear — 




— Love ! thy task is done. 


[Suggested by a picture in which a young girl is repr* 


sented as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by tlM 




spirits of her departed sisters.] 


Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 




Where thou wert wont to rove ; 


She sleeps ! — but not the free and sunny sleep 


r or there the friend of thy soul is not, 


That lightly on the brow of childhood lies : 


Nor the joy of thy youth, Love ! 


Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, 




Yet, ere it sank upon her shadowed eyes, | 


Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there ; 


Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'er- 


Her dreams in the groves she weaves, 


swept 


VVith echoes filling the summer air. 


Her soul's meek stillness — she had prayed and 


With sighs the trembling leaves. 


wept. 


Then turn thee to the world again. 


And now in visions to her couch they come. 


From those dim, haunted bowers. 


The early lost — the beautiful — the dead ! 


And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain 


That unto her bequeathed a mournful home, 


That tells of vanished hours. 


Whence mth their voices all sweet laughtei 
fled; 
They rise — the sisters of her youth arise, 


And wear not on thine aching heart 


The image of the dead ; 


As from the world where no fraU. bl.ssom dies. 


For the tie is rent that gave thee part 




In the gladness its beauty shed. 


And well the sleeper knows them not cf earth — 




Not as they were when binding up the flowert, 


And gaze on the pictured smile no more 


Telling wild legends round the winter hearth. 


That thus can life outlast : 


Braiding their long, fair hair for festal hours : 


All between parted souls is o'er. — 


These things are past — a spiritual gleam. 


Love ! Love ! forget the past ! 


A solemn glory, robes them in that dream. 


« Voice of vain boding ! away, be still ! 


Yet, if the glee of life's fresh buddir^g years 


Strive not against the faith 


In those pure aspects may no more be read, 


that yet my bosom with light can fill. 


Thence, too, hath sorrow melted — and the teari 


TJnquenched, and undimmed by death. 


Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, 




Are all effaced. There earth hath left no sign 


♦ From the pictured smile I will not turn, 


Save its deep love, still touching every line. 


Though sadly now it shine ; 




N'or quit the shades that in whispers mourn 


But 0, more soft, more tender — breathing raori 


For the step once linked with mine ; 

1 


A thought of pity than in vanished lays I 



f72 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMti. 



While, hoTering silently and brightly o'er 
The lone one's head, they meet 1 er spirit's 
gaze 
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, 
'* Yet, sister ! yet we love thee — come away ! " 

Twill fade, the radiant dream ! And will she 
not 
"Wake yvita. more painful yearning at her 
Aeart ? 
Will not her honre seem yet a lonelier spot. 
Her task more sad, when those bright shadows 
part ? 
And the green summer after them look dim. 
And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn ? 

But let her hope be strong, and lot the dead 
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty stiU ; 

Be their names uttered, be their memory spread 
Yet round the place they nevermore may fill ! 

All is not over with earth's broken tie — 

Where, where should sisters love, if not on 
high? 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 

[These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate 
of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then appar- 
ently in the vigor of an existence whose energies promised 
tong continuance ; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, 
and the very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle 
the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all 
«pho had the happiness of approaching him.] 

Home of the gifted ! fare thee well, 

And a blessing on thee rest ! 
"While the heather waves its purple bell 

O'er moor and mountain crest ; 
"While stream to stream around thee calls, 

And braes with broom are dressed. 
Glad be the harping in thy halls — 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

While the high voice from thee sent forth 

Bids rock and cairn reply, 
vVakening the spirits of the North 

Like a chieftain's gathering cry ; 
While its deep master tones hold sway 

As a king's o'er every breast, 
Home of the legend and the lay ! 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

Joy to the hearth, and board, and bower ! 

Long honors to thy line ! 
And hearts of proof, and hands of power. 

And bright names worthy thine ! 



By the merry step of childhood, stiU 
May thy free sward be pressed ! 

While one proud pulse in the land can thrill^ 
A blessing on thee rest ! 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

[This piece was suggested by a picture in the posaeeflci 
of Mrs. Lawrence, of Wavertree Hall. It represents tt* 
" Hero's Child " of Campbell's poem seated beside a soli- 
tary tomb of rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and des- 
ert place. A tempest seems gathering in the angrj' sKiei 
above her, but the attitude of the drooping figure expresses 
the utter carelessness of desolation, and the countenance 
speaks of entire abstraction frofn all external objects. A 
bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst the weeds and wild 
flowers of the desert.] 

" I fled the home of grief 

At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall ; 
I found the helmet of my chief, 

His bow still hanging on our wall, 
And took it down, and vowed to rove 

This desert place a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 

For any heart of living mould." Campbell. 

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud : 

Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise. 

And gird the form whose beauty grief hath 
bowed, 

And leave the tomb, as tombs are left — alone, 

To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan. 

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall. 

Where gems are glittering, and bright wine ia 
poured ; 
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, 
Ajid soul seems gashing from the harp's full 
chord ; 
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave 
Than the sad Love-lies-bleedi7ig of the grave. 

O, little know'st thou of th' o'ermastering spel] 
Wherewith love binds the spirit, strong ir 
pain. 
To the spot hallowed by a wild farewell, 
A parting agony, — intense, yet vain, 
A look — and darkness when its gleam hath 

flown, 
A voice — and silence when its words are gone ' 

She hears thee not : her full, deep, fervent heart 
Is set in her dark eyes ; and tJiey are bound 

Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart. 
Where faithful blood hath sancti^ed the 
srround : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



671 



^d love with death stiiven long by tear and 

prayer, 
And anguish frozen into still despair. 

Vet on her spirit hath arioen at last 

A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born ; 
A round her path a vision's glow is cast, 
Back, back her lost one comes in hues of 
morn ! ' 
For her the gulf is filled — the dark night 

fled, 
Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 

And she can pour forth in such converse high 
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong. 

O, lonelier far, perchance, ihy destiny, 

And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay 
throng 

Than hers — it'* queen of that majestic gloom, 

fhe tempest, and the deser!;, and the tomb ! 



THE VKAYER FOR LIFE. 

O SUNSHINE and fair earth ! 

Sweet is your kindly mirth ; 
Angel of death ! yet a while delay ! 

Too sad it is to part, 

Thus in my spring of heart, 
With all the light and laughter of the day. 

For me the falling leaf 

Touches no chord of grief. 
No dark void in the rose's bosom lies : 

Not one triumphal tone, 

One hue of hope, is gone 
From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. 

Deat't, Death ! ere yet decay, 

Call me not hence away ! 
Over the golden hours no shade is thrown : 

The poesy that dwells 

Deep in green woods and dells 
Ctill to my spirit speaks of joy alone. 

Yet not for this, Death ! 

Not for the vernal breath 
Of -winds that shake forth music from the trees : 

Not for the splendor given 

To night's dark, rogal heaven, 
Bpoiler ! I ask thee not reprieve for these. 

'•* A son of light, a lioTely form, 
He comes, and makes her glad."— Campbell. 



But for the happy love 

"WTiose light, where'er I lOve, 
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, 

Shedding on branch and flower 

A rainboAv-tinted shower 
Of richer life — spare, spare me yet a while. 

Too soon, too fast thou'rt come ! 

Too beautiful is home — 
A home of gentle voices and kind eyes ! 

And I the loved of all. 

On whom fond blessings fall 
From every lip. O, wilt thou rend such ties ? 

Sweet sisters ! weave a chain 

My spirit to detain j 
Hold me to earth with strong affection back ; 

Bind me with mighty love 

Unto the stream, the grove, 
Our daily paths — our life's familiar track. 

Stay with me ! gird me round ! 

Your voices bear a sound 
Of hope — a light comes with you and departs ; 

Hush my soul's boding swell, 

That murmurs of farewell. 
How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts ? 

Death ! Grave ! — and are there thoM 

That woo your dark repose 
'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth ? 

Surely about them lies 

No world of loving eyes. 
Leave me, O, leave me unto home and hearth ? 



THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice I 

My soul hath pined for thee ; 
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from short 

To wanderer on the sea. 
I hear thee in the rustling woodsj 

In the sighing vernal airs ; 
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth 

With a deeper tone than theirs. 

The lonely earth ! Since kindred steps 

From its green paths are fled, 
A dimness and a hush have lain 

O'er all its beauty spread. 
The silence of th' unanswering soul 

Is on me and around : 



574 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



My heart hath echoes but for thee^ 
Thou still, small, warning sound ! 

Voice after voice nath died away, 

Once in my dwelling heard ; 
Sweet household name by name hath changed 

To grief's forbidden word ! 
From dreams of night on each I call, 

Each of the far removed ; 
Vnd waken to my own wild cry — 

" Where are ye, my beloved ? " 

Ye left me ! and earth's flowers were dim 

With records of the past ; 
And stars poured down another light 

Than o'er my youth they cast, 
fiirds will not sing as once they sung 

When ye were at my side, 
And mournful tones are in the wind 

Which I heard not till ye died ! 

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner ! 

Why should the last remain \ 
What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 

Bearing in light again ? 
E'en could this be, too much of fear 

O'er love would now be thrown. — 
Away ! away ! from time, from change, 

Once more to meet my own ! 



THE VICTOR. 

** De tout ce qui t'aimoit n'est-il plus rien qtii t'dme ? " 

Lamabtiitk. 

Mighty ones. Love and Death ! 
*Sre are the strong in this world of ours ; 
ife meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the 
flowers, 

— Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 

Thou art the victor, Love ! 
Thou ai t the fearless, the crowned, the free ; 
The strength of the battle is given to thee — 

The spirit from above ! 

Thou hast looked on Death, and smiled ! 
Thou hast boirjie up the reed-like and fragile 

form 
rhrough the wwves of the fight, through the 
rush of the otorm. 
On field, and ftos ^, r,nd wild ! 



No ! Thou art the victor, Death ! 
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, 
From the depths of the eye, when the spiril 
woke ? 

— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves — yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet, 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart ! 

Boast not thy victory. Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbearo'i 

power. 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber the snow beneath. 

It is but as a tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids b« 

still; 
But the fiery thought and the lofty will 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above : 
And thus with the root whence aff'ection springa. 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 

Thou art the victor. Love ! 



LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM 
AT ROSANNA.i 

O, LIGHTLY tread through these deep chestnut 

bowers. 
Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved! 
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and 

flowers — 
Fair things, which well a gentle heart hatli 

loved ! 
A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode. 
Whence the bright stream of song in teardrop* 

flowed. 

And bid its memory sanctify the scene ! 
And let th' ideal presence of the dead 

1 A beautiful place in the county of Wicklow, forraeii) 
the abode of the autlioress of" Fsycl>4." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



57* 



Float round, and touch the woods with softer 

green, 
And o'er the streams a charm, like moonlight, 

shed, 
riirough the soul's depths in holy silence felt — 
A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt ! 



THE YOICE OF THE WAVES. 

WKITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK 

" How perfect was the calm I It seemed no sleep, 
No mood which season takes away or brings ; 
I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 



But welcome fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne." 

WOEDSWORXH. 

\xswER, ye chiming waves 

That now in sunshine sweep ! 
Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 

Voice of the solemn deep ! 

Hath man's lone spiiit here 

"With storms in battle striven ? 
Where all is now so calmly clear, 

Hath anguish cried to Heaven ? 

-- Then the sea's voice arose 

Like an earthquake's undertone : 
" Mortal ! the strife of human woes 
Where hath not nature known ? 

'* Here to the quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung ; 
The shriek upon the wind hath passed, 

The midnight sky hath rung. 

" And the youthful and the brave, 
V/ith their beauty and renown. 

To the hollow chambers of the wave 
In darkness have gone down. 

♦* They are vanished from, their place — 

Let their homes and hearths make moan ! 
But the rolling waters keep no trace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 

— Alas ! thou haughty deep ! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies — I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass — 
High hope, and thought, and mind — 



E'en as the breath stain from the glass, 
Leaving no sign behind ! 

Saw'st thou nought else, thou main ? 

Thou and the midnight sky ? 
Nought save the struggle, brief and yain, 

The parting agony ! 

— And the sea's voice replied : 
" Here nobler things have been ! 

Power, with the valiant when they died. 
To sanctify the scene ; 

** Courage, in fragile form ; 

Faith, trusting to the last ; 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards through thv 
storm ; 

But all alike have passed." 

Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 

These have not passed in vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs fre* 

On victor wings again. 

Thou, from thine empire driven, 

Mayst vanish with thy powers ; 
But, by the hearts that here have stnm»* 

A loftier boon is ours ! 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

" I seem like one who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted, 
Wliose lights are fled, whose garlands dead. 
And all but me departed." Moobb, 

Seest thou yon gray, gleaming hall. 
Where the deep elm shadows fall ? 
Voices that have left the earth 

Long ago 
Still are murmuring round its hearth 

Soft and \o\s : 
Ever there ; — yet one alone 
Hath the gift to hear their tone. 
Guests come thither, and depart, 
Free of step, and light of heart ; 
Children, with sweet \dsions blessed, 
In the haunted chambers rest ; 
One alone unslumbering lies 
When the night hath sealed all eyes. 
One quick heart and watchful ear, 
Listening for those whispers cJear. 

Seest thou where the woodbine flowei< 
O'er yon low porch har.g in fhower* ? 



576 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Startling faces ot the dead, 

Pale, yet sweet, 
One lone -woman's entering tread 

There still meet ! 
Some with young, smooth foreheads fair. 
Faintly shining through bright hair ; 
Some with reverend locks of snow — 
All, all buried long ago ! 
All, from under deep sea waves, 
Or the flowers of foreign graves, 
Or the old and bannered aisle. 
Where their high tombs gleam the while ; 
Rising, wandering, floating by. 
Suddenly and silently. 
Through their earthly home and place, 
But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone. 

Are those sounds and visions knovm ? 

Wherefore hath that spell of power 

Dark and dread, 
On her soul, a baleful dower, 

Thus been shed ? 
O, in those deep-seeing eyes 
No strange gift of mystery lies ! 
She is lone where once she moved 
Fair, and happy, and beloved ! 
Sunny smiles were glancing round her, 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her. 
Now those silver chords are broken. 
Those bright looks have left no token — 
Not one trace on all the earth. 
Save her memory of their mirth. 
She is lone and lingering now ; 
Dreams have gathered o'er her brow ; 
'Midst gay songs and children's play 
She is dwelhng far away. 
Seeing what none else may see — 
Haunted still her place must be ! 



nm SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS. 

** God gave him reverence of laws, 
Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause — 
A spirit to his rocks akin, 
The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein 1 " Colebidge. 

Singing of the free blue sky. 
And the wild-flower glens that lie 
Far amidst the ancient hills. 
Which the fountain music fills ; 
Singing of the snow peaks bright, 
And the royal eagle's flight, 
And the courage and the grace 
Fostered bv the chamois chase ; 



In his fetters, day by day. 

So the shepherd poet lay. 

Wherefore from a dungeon cell 

Did those notes of freedom swell, 

Breathing sadness not their own 

Forth with every Alpine tonp ? 

Wherefore ! — can a tyrant's ear 

Brook the mountain winds to hear 

When each blast goes pealing by 

With a song of liberty ? 

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand 

O'er the shepherd poet's land ; 

Sounding there the waters gushed, 

While the lip of man was hushed ; 

There the falcon pierced the cloud, 

While the fiery heart was bowed. 

But this might not long endure 

Where the mountain homes were pure , 

And a valiant voice arose, 

Thrilling all the silent snows ; 

His — now singing far and lone. 

Where the young breeze ne'er was known 

Singing of the glad blue sky. 

Wildly — and how mournfully ! 

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyoi 
To be free where the hills unto heaven as- 
pire? 
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, 
Now that their poet is chained at last ? — 
Think of the mountains, and deem not so ! 
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow ! 
Yes ! though forbidden be every word 
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirred, 
Yet even as a buried stream tlirough earth 
Rolls on to another and brighter birth, 
So shall the voice that hath seemed to die 

Burst forth with the anthem of liberty ! 

« 

And another power is moving 

In a bosom fondly loving : 

O, a sister's heart is deep. 

And her spirit strong to keep 

Each light link of early hours, 

All sweet scents of childhood's flowffltS 

Thus each lay by Erni sung 

Rocks and crystal caves among. 

Or beneath the linden leaves, 

Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves. 

Rapid though as bird notes gushing, 

Transient as a wan cheek's flushing. 

Each in young Teresa's breast 

Left its fiery words impressed ; 

Treasured there lay every line. 

As a rich book on a hidden shrins. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



577 



Fair was that lone girl, and meek, 

With a pale, transparent cheek, 

And a deep -fringed violet eye 

Seeking in sweet shade to lie. 

Or, if raised to glance above. 

Dim with its own dews of love ; 

And a pure Madonna orow, 

And a silvery voice and low, 

Like the echo of a flute, 

Kren the last, ere all be mute. 

jBut a loftier soul was seen 

In vke orphan sister's mien, 

From ihat hour when chains defiled 

Hint, the high Alps* noble child. 

Tones in hei t^uivering voice awoke. 

As if a harp of oattle spoke ; 

Light, that seexiicd born of an eagle's nest, 

Flashed from her woft eyes unrepressed ; 

And her form, like a spreading water flower, 

When its frail cup swells with a sudden 

shower. 
Seemed all dilated -with love and pride, 
And grief for that t)rovh«r, her young heart's 

guide. 
Well might they love ! — ^.hose two had grown 
Orphans together and alone : 
The silence of the Alpine sky 
Had hushed their hearts to pitty ; 
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid, 
Had been their altar when they grayed ; 
There, more in tenderness than woe, 
The stars had seen their young teaia flow ; 
The clouds, in spirit-like descent. 
Their deep thoughts by one touch Lad b^ent 
And the wild storms linked them to each other; 
How dear can peril make a brother ! 

Now is their hearth a forsaken spot. 
The vine waves unpruned o'er their mount»in rjot : 
Away, in that holy affection's might. 
The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night. 
She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face, 
Filling with soul every secret place. 
Hath a dower from Heaven, and a gift of sway. 
To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, 
Like the sudden flinging forth on high 
Of a banner that startleth silently ! 
She hath wandered through many a hamlet vale. 
Telling Its children her brother's tale ; 
And the strains by his spirit poured away 
Freely as fountains might shower their spray. 
From her fervent lip a new life have caught. 
And a power to kindle yet bolder thought ; 
While sometimes a melody, all her own. 
Like a gush of tears in its plantive tone, 
73 



May be heard 'midst the rocks to flow. 

Clear through the water chimes — clear, yet lo-w 

" Thou'rt not where wild flowers wave 
O'er crag and sparry cava ; 
Thou'rt not where pines are sounding, 
Or joyous torrents bounding — 

Alas, my brother \ 

«* Thou'rt not where green, on high. 
The brighter pastures lie ; 
Even those, thine own -wild places. 
Bear of our chain dark traces : 

Alas, my brother ! 

" Far hath the sunbeam spread. 
Nor found thy lonely bed ; 
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee. 
Nor one sweet whisper brought thee 
Alas, my brother ! 

" Thou, that for joy wert born. 
Free as the -svings of morn ! 
Will aught thy young life cherish. 
Where the Alpine rose would perish — 
Alas, my brother ! 

" Canst thou be singing still, 

As once, on every hill ? 

Is not thy soul forsaken. 

And the bright gift from thee taken ? — 

Alas, alas, my brother ' " 

At. d was the bright gift from the captive fled ? 
Like the fire on his heaft-th, was his spirit dead 
Not so ! — but as rooted in stillness deep 
The pure stream lily its place will keep 
Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver 
While the red waves rush down the foaix ing 

river ; 
So freedom's faith in his bosom lay. 
Trembling, yet not to be borne away I 
He thovvht of the Alps and the breezy air. 
And felt that his country no chains might beat , 
He thought of the hunter's haughty Kfe, 
And knew there must yet be noble strife. 
But O, when he thought of that orphan Tiaid, 
His high heart melted — he wept and pra> ed ! 
For he saw her not as she moved e'«n then, 
A wakener of heroes in every glen. 
With a glance inspi'-ed wmcn no grief couiu 

tame. 
Bearing on hope hke a torch's flame ; 
While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongf 
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songB. 



578 



^IISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



But his dreams were filled by a haunting tone, 
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan ; 
Ajid his soul was pierced by a mournful eye, 
Which looked on it — O, how beseechingly ! 
And there floated past him a fragile form, 
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm ; 
Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove 
In vain with its burden of helpless love ! 
Thus woke the dreamer one weary night — 
ITiere flashed through his dungeon a s\^'ift strong 

Hght; 
He sprang up — he climbed to the grating bars. 

— It was not the rising of moon or stars, 
But a signal flame from a peak of snow, 
Rocked through the dark skies to and fro ! 
There shot forth another — another still — 
A hundred answers of hill to hill ! 
Tossing like pines in the tempest's way, 
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, 
And each is hailed with a pealing shout. 
For the high Alps waving their banners out ! 
Erni ! young Erni ! the land hath risen ! — 
Alas ! to be lone in thy narrow prison ! 
Those free streamers glancing, and thou not 

there ! 

— Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair ? 

— Hark! there's a tumult that shakes his 

cell. 
At the gates of the mountain citadel ! 
Hark ! a clear voice through the rude sounds 

ringing ! 
Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet 



smgmg 



♦' There may not long be fetters. 
Where the cloud is earth's array. 

And the bright floods leap from cave and steep. 
Like a hunter on the prey ! 

" There may not long be fetters. 

Where the white Alps have their towers ; 

Unto eagle homes, if the arrow comes, 
The chain is not for ours ! " 

It U she ! She is 3ome uke a dayspring 

beam, 
Bhe that so mournfully shadowed his dream ! 
With her shining eyes and her buoyant 

form, 
She is come ! her tears on his cheek are warm ; 
^nd O, the thrill in that weeping voice ! 
' My brother ! my brother ! come forth, rejoice ! " 

Poet ! the land of thy love is free — 
Sister ! thy brother is won by thee ! 



TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS. 

" How divine 

The liberty, for fmil, for mortal man, 
To roam at large among unpeopled gleni, 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps — regions consecrate 
To oldest time I And reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion— one 
Among the many there." Wordswokth. 

Mountain winds ! O, whither do ye call me ( 
Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue ! 

Chains of care to lower earth inthrall me, 
Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo ? 

O, the strife of this divided being ! 

Is there peace where ye are born on high ^ 
Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, 

In our hearts would haunting memories die ? 

Those "wdld places are not as a dwelling 

Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone ! 

Never from those rocky halls came swelling 
Voice of kindness in familiar tone ! 

Surely music of oblivion sweepeth 

In the pathway of your wanderings free 

And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth. 
Sings of no lost home amidst its glee. 

There the rushing of the falcon's pinion 
Is not from some hidden pang to fly ; 

All things breathe of power and stern dominion— 
Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. 

Mountain winds ! O, is it, is it only 

A\Tiere man's trace hath been that so we pine ? 

Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, 
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine ' 

Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers ! 

At whose tone my heart within me burns ; 
Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, 

Where the waters have their secret urns ! 

There to commune with a loftier spirit 
Than the troubling shadows of regre\ y 

There the wings of freedom to inherit, 

Where the enduring and the winged are met 

Hush, proud voices ! gentle be your falling I 
Woman's lot thus chainless may not be ; 

Hush ! the. heart your trumpet sounds are 
calling 
Darkly still may gro-^ -but csver free ' 



THE PROCESSION. 

The peace which passcth all understanding ' disclosed itself 
n her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a 
teady, unshadowed moonlight."— Coleridge. 

There were trampling sounds of many feet, 
A.nd music rushed through the crowded street — 
Proud music, such as tells the sky 
Of a chief returned from victory. 

Thera were banners to the winds unrolled, 
With haughty words on each blazoned fold ; 
High battle names, which had rung of yore 
When lances clashed on the Syrian shore. 

Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, 
There were flowers of the woods on the path- 
way strewn ; 
And wheels that crushed as they swept along ; 
0, what doth the violet amidst the throng ? 

1 saw where a bright procession passed 
The gates of a minster old and vast ; 
And a king to his crowning place was led, 
Through a sculptured line of the warrior dead. 

I saw, far gleaming, the long array 
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, 
And the colored light, that ^^Tapped them all, 
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall. 

But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye 
Away from th' ancestral pageantry — 
A grave by the lordly minster's gate, 
Unhonored, and yet not desolate. 

It was a dewy greensward bed, 
Meet for the rest of a peasant head ; 
But Love — O, lovelier than all beside ! — 
That lone place guarded and glorified. 

For a gentle form stood watching there, 
Young — but how sorrowfully fair ! 
Keeping the flowers of the holy spot. 
That reckless feet mignt profane them not. 

Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, 
And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek 5 
And I deemed, by its lifted gaze of love, 
That her sad heart's treasure was all above. 

For alone she seemed 'midst the throng to be. 
Like a bird of the waves far away at sea ; 
Alone, in a mourner's vest arrayed, 
A)jd with folded hands, e'f n as if she prayed. 



It faded before me, that mask of pride ; 
The haughty swell of the music died ; 
Banner, and arnior, and tossing plume 
All melted away in the twilight's gloom. 

But that orj^han form, with its willowy grace, 
And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm fate 
Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night ho i 

glide — 
— O, Love is lovelier than all beside ! 



THE BROKEN LUTE 

" When the lamp is shattered, 

The light in the dust lies dead, 
When the cloud is scattered, 

The rainbow's ctlory is shed; 
When the lute is broken, 

Sweet sounds are remembered not 
When the words are spoken, 

Loved accents are soon forgot 

As music and splendor 

Survive not the lamp and lute. 
The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute." bBELLBT. 

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 

'Midst forms that breathed from the pic».iire«^ 

walls ; 
But a glow of beauty like her own, 
There had no dream of the painter thrown. 
Lit from within was her noble brow. 
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow ; 
Her young, clear cheek had a changeful hue, 
As if ye might see how the soul wrought througli, 
And every flash of her fervent eye 
Seemed the bright wakening of poesy. 

Even thus it was ! From her childhood's yean 
A being of sudden smiles and tears — 
Passionate visions, quick light and shade — 
Such was that high-born Italian maid ! 
And the spirit of song in her bosom cell 
Dwelt, as the odors in violets dwell. 
Or as the sounds in iEolian strings, 
Or in aspen leaves the quiverings ; 
There, ever there, with the life enshrined, 
Waiting the call of the faintest wind. 

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, 
In the city's hour of moonlight glee - 
Oft would that gift of the southern sky 
O'erflow from her lips in melody ; 
Oft amid festal halls it came, 
Like the springing forth of a sudden flame • 
Till the dance was hushed, and the silvery tor* 
Of her inspiration was heard alone. 



»K 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And fame went with her, the bright, the crowned, 
And music floated her steps around ; 
And every lay of her soul was borne 
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. 

And was the daughter of Venice blest, 
With ^ power so deep in her youthful breast ? 
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye 
So many changes and dreams went by. 
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought 
As if but born from the rush of thought ? 
Yes ! in the brightness of joy a while 
She moved as a bark in the sunbeam's smile ; 
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, 
All, all on a happy love was poured ! 
How loves a heart whence the stream of song 
Flows, like the lifeblood, quick, bright, and 

strong ? 
How loves a heart, which hath never proved 
One breath of the world ? Even so she loved ; 
Blessed, though the lord of her soul, afar, 
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war. 
Bearing the flag of St. Mark's on high, 
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. 
Proud music breathed in her song, when fame 
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name ; 
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith — 
Perfect, and fearing no change but death. 

But the fields are won from the Othman 
host. 
In the land that quelled the Persian's boast, 
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn 
For the day of triumph and return ! 
The day is come ! the flashing deep 
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep ; 
And the sceptred city of the wave 
With her festal splendor greets the brave ; 
Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, 
Make the air one stream of .exulting sound ; 
While the beautiful, wdth their sunny smiles, 
Look from each hall of the hundred isles. 

But happiest and brightest that day of all, 
Robed for her warrior's festival. 
Moving a queen 'midst the radiant tnrong, 
Was she, th' inspired one, the maid of song ! 
The lute he loved on her arm she bore, 
As she rushed in her joy to the crowded shore ; 
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow 
By the sunset given unto mountain suoav. 
And her eye all filled with the spirit's play, 
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, 
A.nd her long hair waving in ringlets bright — 
^o came tlia being of hope and light ! 



One moment, Erminia ! one moment more, 

And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er ! 

The bark of her lover hath touched the strand — 

Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand ? 

— A young fair form, whose nymph-hke grace 

Accorded well with the Grecian face, 

And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek. 

And the lashes that drooped o'er a pale ro8« 

cheek ; 
And he looked on that beauty with tendei 

pride — 
The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride ! 

But how stood she, the forsaken, there, 

Struck by the lightning of swift despair ? 

Still, as amazed with grief, she stood. 

And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood , 

And there came from her quivering lip no w^ord, 

Only the fall of her lute was heard. 

As it dropped from her hand at her rival's feet, 

Into fragments, whose djing thrill was sweet ! 

What more remaineth? Her day was done ; 
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one ! 
The light, the vision, the gift of power, 
Passed from her soul in that mortal hour, 
Like the rich sound from the shattered string 
Whence the gush of sweetness no more mighl 

spring ! 
As an eagle struck in his upward flight, 
So was her hope from its radiant height ; 
And her song went with it forevermore, 
A gladness taken from sea and shore ! 
She had moved to the echoing sound of fame- 
Silently, silently, died her name ! 
Silently melted her life away. 
As ye have seen a young flower decay, 
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burned expire. 
Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire 
Leaving its channel all dry and mute — 
Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute ! 



THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. 

" How weeps yon gallnnt band 
O'er him their valor could not save I 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiful and brave, 

Now sleeps in Egypt's sand." WiLSOV. 

In the shadow of the pyramid 
Our brother's grave we made, 

When the battle day was done, 

And the desert's parting sun 
A field of death surveved. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 68 


The blood-red sky above us 


To thee a southern heart hath given 


Was darkening into night, 


That glow of love, that calm of heaven, 


And the Arab Avatching silently 


And round thee cast th' ideal gleam, 


Our sad and hurried rite ; 


The light that is but of a dream. 


The voice of Egypt's river 


Far hence, where wandering music alls 


Came hollow and profound ; 


The haunted air of Roman hills, 


- And one lone palm tree, where we stood, 


Or where Venetian waves of yore 


Rocked with a shivery sound ; 


Heard melodies they hear no more, 




Some proud old minster's gorgeous aislt 


While the shadow of the pyramid 


Hath known the s^Oeetness of thy smile. 


Hung o'er the grave we made, 




When the battle day was done, 


Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine. 


And the desert's parting sun 


'Mid forests of the Apennine, 


A field of death surveyed. 


Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell 




Pass like a floating anthem swell, 


The fathers of our brother 


Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way 


Were borne to knightly tombs, 


Shed blessings with their gentle ray. 


With torchlight and with anthem note, 




And many waving plumes ; 


Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, 




Perchance thine island chapel stood. 


But he, the last and noblest 


Where from the blue Sicilian sea 


Of that high Norman race, 


The sailor's hymn hath risen to thee. 


With a few brief words of soldier love 


And blessed thy power to guide, to 


Was gathered to his place ; 


save, 




Madonna ! watcher of the wave ! 


In the shadow of the pyramid, 




Where his youthful form we laid, 


0, might a voice, a whisper low. 


When the battle day was done. 


Forth from those lips of beauty flow ! 


And the desert's parting sun 


Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, 


A field of death surveyed. 


The conflicts, and the pangs of years. 




Which, at thy secret shrine revealed. 


But let him, let him slumber 


Have gushed from human hearts unsc&led , 


By the old Egyptian wave ! 




It is well with those who bear their fame 


Surely to thee hath woman come, 


TJnsvillied to the grave ! 


As a tired wanderer back to home ! 




Unveiling many a timid guest 


When brightest names are breathed on. 


And treasured sorrow of her breast, 


When loftiest fall so fast, 


A buried love — a wasting care ! 


We would not call our brother back 


0, did those griefs win peace from prayer \ 


On dark days to be cast, — 




From the shadow of the pj-ramid, 


And did the poet's fervid soul 


Where his noble heart we laid. 


To thee lay bare its inmost scroll ? 


When the battle day was done. 


Those thoughts, which poured thtir q»fnch 


And the desert's parting sun 


less fire 


A field of death svirveyed. 


And passion o'er th' Italian lyre, 




Did they to still submission die 




Beneath thy calm, religious eye ? 


10 A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA. 


And hath the crested helmet bowed 




Before thee, 'midst the incense cloud ? 


• Ave Maria I May our spirits dare 


Hath the crowned leader's bosom lone 


Look up to thine, and to thy Son's above ? " — Bykon. 


To thee its haughty griefs made known > 


Fair vision ! thou'rt from sunny skies, 


Did thy glance break their frozen sleep 


Born wlicre the rose hath richest dyes ; 


And win th' unconquered one tc weep 



•82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Hushed is the anthem, closed the vow, 


With eyes that like the dewdrop shine, 


The votive garland withered now ; 


And bounding footsteps wild { 


Yet holy still to me thou art, 




Thou that hath soothed so many a heart I 


Tell me what hues th' immortal shore 


And still must blessed influence flow 


Can wear, my bird ! to thee, 


From the meek glory of thy brow. 


Ere yet one shadow hath passed o'er 




Thy glance and spirit free ? 


Still speak to suffering Avoman's love ; 




Of rest for gentle hearts above ; 


•• 0, beautiful is heaven, and bright 


Of hope, that hath its treasure thera ; 


With long, long summer days ; 


Of home, that knows no changeful air. 


I see its lilies gleam in light 


Bright form ! lit up with thoughts divine, 


Where many a fountain plays. 


Ave ! such power be ever thine ! 






" And there unchecked, methinks, I rove. 




And seek where young flowers lie. 




In vale and golden-fruited grovo 




Flowers that are not to die ! 


A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. 






Thou poet of the lonely thought, 


rfiw much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 


Sad heir of gifts divine ! 


Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower ! 


Say with what solemn glory fraught 


The bridal day — the festival — the tomb — 


Is heaven in dreams of thine ? 


Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest 




flower ! 


" 0, where the Hving waters flow 




Along that radiant shore. 


Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 


My soul, a wanderer here, shall know 


A thousand images of love and grief. 


The exile thirst no more. 


Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, 




Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and 


" The burden of the stranger's heart 


brief. 


Which here alone I bear, 




Like the night shadow shall depart 


Not such thy spells o'er those that hailed th.ee 


With my first wakening there. 


first. 




In the clear light of Eden's golden day ! 


'* And borne on eagle wings afar. 


There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst. 


Free thought shall claim its dower 


Linked with no dim remembrance of decay. 


From every realm, from every star, 




Of glory and of power." 


Rose ! for the banquet gathered, and the bier; 




Rose ! colored now by human hope and pain ; 


woman ! with the soft, sad eye 


Surely where death is not — nor change, nor 


Of spiritual gleam. 


fear, 


Tell me of those bright worlds on high. 


Yet may we meet thee, joy's oaati flower, again ! 


How doth thij fond hears dream ? 


• 


By the sweet mournful voice I know. 




On thy pale brow I see, 




That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe •- 


DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 


Say, what is heaven to thee ? 


" We color heaven with our own human thoughts, 


" 0, heaven is where no secret dread 


Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances, 


May haunt love's meeting hour, 


Our passionate love, that seems unto itself 
An immortality." 


Where from the past no glocm is shed 




O'er the heart's chosen bower ; 


Dream'st thou of heaven ? What dreams are 




thine, 


«♦ "\Miere every severed wreath is bound •- 


Fair child, lair gladsome child r 


Where none have heard the knell 



MISCELIANEOUS POEMS. 



6il 



That smites the heart with that deep 
sound — 
Farewell, beloved ! — farewell I " 



THE WISH. 

Come to me, when my soul 
llath but a few dim hours to linger here ; 

WTien earthly chains are as a shrivelled scroll, 
'), let me feel thy presence ! be but near ! 

That I may look once more 
Into thine eyes^ which never changed for me ; 
That I may speak to thee of that bright 
shore 
Where, with our treasure, we have longed 
to be. 

Thou friend of many days ! 
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth ! xi 

Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise 
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth ? 

By every solemn thought 
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, 
From the deep voices of the mountains caught. 
O'er all th' adoring silence of the sky ; 

By every lofty theme 
Whereon, in low-toned reverence, we have 
spoken ; 
By our communion in each fervent dream 
That sought from realms beyond the grave a 
token ; 

And by our tears for those 
Whose loss hath touched our world with hues 
of death ; 
And by the hopes that with their dust re- 
pose, 
Aa flowers await the south wind's vernal breath ; 

Come to me in that day — 
The one — the severed from all days — O friend ! 
Even then, if human thought may then have 
sway, 
My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. 

Nor then, nor there alone ; 
I ask mv heart if all indeed must die — 

All that of holiest feelings it hath knoM-n > 
Ijid my heart's voice replies — Eternity ! 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, 

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILHKNKT.l 

" Yes I hide beneath the mouldering heap, 
The undelighted, sliglited thing; 
There in the cold earth, buried deep, 
In silence let it wait the spring." 

Mrs. Tioiie'8 "Poem on the IHf." 

I STOOD where the lip of song lay low, 
Where the dust had gathered on Beauty's bro w 
Where stillness hung on the heart of Love, 
And a marble weeper kept watch above. 

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, 
Of deep affections that inly wrought, 
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear — 
They knew themselves exiled spirits here ! 

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, 
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly ! 
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, 
No burden of mortal sufferings. 

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb. 
Over a bright world of joy and bloom ; 
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, 
The all that severed thi/ life and mitie. 

Mme, with its inborn mysterious things. 
Of love and grief its unfathomed springs ; 
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and 

sky, 
With voices to question eternity ! 

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way. 
Like an embodied breeze at play ! 
Child of the sunlight ! thou winged and free ! 
One moment, one moment, I envied thee ! 

Thou art not lonely, though bom to roam. 
Thou hast no longings that pine for home ; 
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and Dird, 
To fly from the sickness of hope deferred. 

In thy brief being no strife of mind, 
No boundless passion, is deeply si.rined > 
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 
One hour of my soul seemed infinity ! 

And she, that voiceless below me slept, 
Flowed not her song from a heart that wept ? 



1 See the " Grave of a Poetess," p. 478, on the same sub- 
jort, anr writter .several years previously to visiting ihi 
soene 



584 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



— O Love and Song! though of heaven your 

powers, 
Dark is your fate in this world of ours. 

Vet, ere I turned from that silent place, 
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, 
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings. 
Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 

Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth, gg 
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth, 
0, fitly thy path is through flowers that rise 
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies ! 



EPITAPH. 

Farewell, beloved and mourned ! We miss a 

■while 
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile, 
And that blessed gift of Heaven, to cheer us lent, 
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent, 
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, 

high. 
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony. 
Yet from those very memories there is born 
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn : 
O, bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode, 
To meet at last " the pure in heart " w^ith God ! 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF 
FIESCO, 

AS TEAN8LATED FROM THB GERMAN OF SCHILLER, 

BY COLONEL D'aGUILAE, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE 

ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER, 1832. 

Too long apart, a bright but severed band, 
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land 
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sun»j — 
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. 
Brave hearts leaped proudly to their words of 

power, 
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour ; 
Fair eyes rained homage o'er th' impassioned 

lays. 
En loving tears, more eloquent than praise ; 
While w^e, far distant, knew not, dreamed not, 

aught 
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. 

But let the barriers of the sea give way, 
Wlien mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's 
swav ! 



And let the Rhine divide high, iouls no more 
From mingling on its old heroic shore. 
Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through manj 

an age 
Have made the poet's own free heritage ! 
To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone 
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known ; 
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning 

tear. 
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here 
And if by one, more used on march and heath 
To the shrill bugle than the muse's breath. 
With a warm heart the off'ering hath beer 

brought, 
And in a trusting loyalty of thought. 
So let it be received ! — a soldier's hand 
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land 
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime, 
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time. 
Hath song held empire ; then, if not with /ame 
Let the Green Isle with kindness bless his aim, 
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, 
Where once that harp " the soul of music shed ! * 



TO GIULIO REGONDl, 

THE BOY GUITARIST. 

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy I 

Never may suff'ering wake a deeper tone 
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, 

Calls forth exulting from the chords w^hich 
own 
Thy fairy touch ! O, mayst thou ne'er bf 

taught 
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought 

For in the light of those confiding eyes, 

And on th' ingenuous calm of that clear brow 

A dower, more precious e'en than genius, lies, 
A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's verna 
glow ! 

God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle chi'.d 

Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undefiltd 



O YE HOURS! 

O YE hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Floatmg lightly by. 
Are ye come with birds arid flowers, 

Odors and b) ue sky ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 58c 


•* Yes ! we come, again ^ve come, 


" Did my song of the summer breathe nough' 


Througli the Avood paths free, 


but glee ? 


Bringing many a wanderer home, 


Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee 


With the bird and bee." 


— 0, hadst thou known its d^ep meaning welL 




It had tales of a burning heai to tell ! 


O ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 


From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 


Are ye wafting song ? 


Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 


Doth wild music stream in showers 


And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, 


All the groves among ? 


Sighed for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 


"Yes ! the nightingale is there 


Was it with thee thus, my bird ? 


While the starlight reigns, 


Yet thine eye flashed clear and bright , 


Making ycu.i»g leaves and sweet air 


I have seen the glance of sudden joy 


Tremble with her strains." 


In its quick and dewy light. 


ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 


" It flashed with the fire of a tameless race. 


In your silent flow 


With the soul of the wildwood, my native place 


Ye are mighty, mighty powers ! 


With the spuit that panted through heaven td 


Bring ye bliss or woe ? 


soar : 




Woo me not back — I return no more ! 


•* Ask not this — 0, seek not this ! 


My home is high, amidst rocking trees. 


Yield your hearts a while 


My kindred things are the star and the breeze, 


To the soft wind's balmy kiss, 


And the fount unchecked in its lonely play, 


And the heaven's bright smile. 


And the odors that wander afar away ! " 


" Throw not shades of anxious though : 


Farewell — farewell, then, bird ! 


O'er the glowing flowers ! 


I have called on spirits gone, 


We are come with sunshine fraught, 


And it may be they joyed, like thee, to part ^ 


QuestioL not the hours ! " 


Like thee, that wert all my own ! 




" If they were captives, and pined like me. 




Though love may guard them, they joyed U bt 




free; 


THE FREED BIRD. 


They sprang from the earth with a burst ol 




power. 


Return, return, my bird ! 


To the strength of their wings, to their tri- 


I have dressed thy cage with flowers ; 


umph's hour ! 


'Tis lovely as a violet bank 


Call them not back when the chain is riven. 


In the heart of forest bowers. 


When the way of the pinion is all througli 




heaven ! 


* I am free, I am free — I return no more ! 


Farewell ! — with my song through the cloud* 


rhe weary time of the cage is o'er ; 


I soar. 


Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high. 


I pierce the blue skies — I am earth's no more ! " 


The sky is around me— the blue, bright 




sky! 





fhc hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear. 




With their glowing heath flowers and bounding 


MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.* 


deer; 






" Thou falcon-hearted dove I " — Colkbidoi 


see the waves flash on the sunny shore — 




am free, I am free — I return no more ! " 


The Moslem spears were gleamlug 




Round Damietta's towers. 


Alas, alas ! my bird ! 




Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
Wert thou not blessed in thy little bower. 


1 Queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks a 
Damietta, during the captivity of the k'n\<i her husband, shi 


When thy song breathed nought but glee ? 
74 


there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in com 



jS6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Though a Christian banner from her wall 


Yet calmly lay the desolate, 


Waved free its lily flowers. 


With her young babe on her breast ! 


A.y, proudly did the banner wave, 




As queen of earth and air ; 


There were voices in the city, 


But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds 


Voices of wrath and fear — 


In anguish and despair. 


"The walls grow weak, the strife is Tain — 




We will not perish here ! 


^eep, deep in Paynim dungeon 


Yield ! yield ! and let the Crescent gleam 


Their kingly chieftain lay, 


O'er tower and bastion high ! 


And low on many an Eastern field 


Our distant homes are beautiful — 


Their knighthood's best array. 


We stay not here to die ! " 


'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, 




The wine cup round to send ; 


They bore those fearful tidings 


For each that touched it silently 


To the sad queen where she lay — 


Then missed a gallant friend ! 


They told a tale of wavering hearts, 




Of treason and dismay : 


And mournful was their vigil 


The blood rushed through her pearly cheek. 


On the beleagured wall. 


The sparkle to her eye — 


And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 


" Now call me hither those recreant knights 


Of slow defeat and fall. 


From the bands of Italy ! " ' 


Yet a few hearts of chivalry 




Rose high to breast the storm, 


Then through the vaulted chambers 


And one — of all the loftiest there — 


Stern iron footsteps rang ; 


Thrilled in a woman's form. 


And heavily the sounding floor 




Gave back the sabre's clang. 


A woman, meekly bending 


They stood around her — steel-clad men, 


O'er the slumber of her child. 


Moulded for storm and fight. 


With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love. 


But they quailed before the loftier soul 


As the Virgin Mother's mild. 


In that pale aspect bright. 


0, roughly cradled was thy babe, 




'Midst the clash of spear and lance. 


Yes ! as before the falcon shrinks 


And a strange, wild bower was thine, young 


The bird of meaner wing. 


queen ! 


So shrank they from th' imperial glar ^e 


Fair Marguerite of France j 


Of her — that fragile thing ! 




And her flute-like voice rose clear and high 


A dark and vaulted chamber, 


Through the din of arms around — 


Like a scene for wizard spell, 


Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, 


Deep in the Saracenic gloom 


As a silver clarion's sound. 


Of the warrior citadel ; 




And there 'midst arms the couch was spread. 


" The honor of the Lily 


And with banners curtained o'er, 


Is in your hands to keep. 


For the daughter of the minstrel land. 


And the banner of the Cross, for Him 


The gay Provencal shore ! 


Who died on Calvary's steep ; 




And the city Avhich for Christian prayer 


For the bright queen of St. Louis, 


Hath heard the holy bell — 


The star of court and hall ! 


And is it these your hearts would yield 


But the deep strength of the gentle heart 


To the godless infidel ? 


Wakes to the tempest's call ! 




Her lord was in the Paynim's hold. 


" Then bring me here a breastplate 


His soul with grief oppressed, 


And a helm, before ye fly. 


nemoration ot Ber misfortunes. Information being con- 


wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend btf 


reyed to her, that the knights intrusted with the defence 


anid the Cross to the last extremity 


»f the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them sum- 


1 The proposal to capitulate is attributed by tbe Fr«nt> 


Bioned to her apartment j and, by her heroic words, so 


historian to the knights of Pisa. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



68i 



And I will gird my woman's form, 

And on the ramparts die ! 
And the boy whom I have borne for woe, 

But never for disgrace, 
Shall go within mine arms to death 

M,e©t for his royal race. 

Look ot him as he slumbers 

In tlvi ^hadow of the lance ! 
Then go, and with the Cross forsake 

The princely babe of France ! 
But tell your homes ye left one heart 

I'o perish undefiled ; 
A woman, and a queen, to guard 

Her honor and her child ! " 

Before her words they thrilled, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And 8 de'^pening murmur told of men 

Roused to a loftier mood. 
And her babe awoke to flashing swords, 

Unsheathed in many a hand. 
As they gathered round the helpless one. 

Again a noble band ! 

" We are thy warriors, lady ! 

True to the Cross and thee ; 
The spirit of thy kindling words 

On every sword shall be ! 
Kest, with th}'' fair child on thy breast ! 

Rest — we will guard thee well ! 
St. Denis for the Lily flower 

A.nd the Civ 'stian citadel ! " 



THE WANDERER. 

tBAKSLATE ■> FEOM THE GERMAN OF SCHMIDT VON LUBECK 

I COME down from the hills alone ; 
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan ! 
I wander on in thoughtful care, 
Forever asking, sighing — where? 

Vhe sunshine round seems dim and cold, 
And flowers are pale, and life is old. 
And words fall soulless on my ear — 
0, I am still a stranger here ! 

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine 

own ! 
Still sought for, longed for, never know 
The land, the land of hope, of light, 
Where glow my roses freshly bright, 



And where my friends the green paths tread 
And where in beauty rise my dead ; 
The land that speaks my native speech, 
The blessed land I may not reach 1 

I wander on in thoughtful care. 
Forever asking, sighing — where f 
And spirit sounds come answering this — 
♦' There, where thou art not, there is bliss J" 



THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST 
WASP OF SCOTLAND, 

— A. jeu-d' esprit produced at this time, which owed its on- 
gin to a simple remark on the unseasonahleneiss of tb« 
weather, made by Mrs. Hemans to iMr. Charles Kirkpatrick 
Sharpe, whom she was in the habit of seeing at Sir David 
Wedderburn's. " It is so little like summer," she said, 
" that I have not even seen a butterfly." " A butterfly ! " 
retorted Mr. Sharpe, "I have not even seen a wasp!" 
The next morning, as if in confutation of this calumny, a 
wasp made its appearance at Lady Wedderburn's breakfast 
table. Mrs. Hemans immediately proposed thai it should 
be made a prisoner, enclosed in a bottle, and sent to Mr. 
Sharpe: this was accordingly done, and tlie piquant missiva 
was acknowledged by him as follows : — 

"SONNET TO A WASP, IN THE MANNER O/ 
MILTON, &c., BUT MUCH SUPERIOR. 

" Poor insect ! rash as rare ! Thy sovereign, 

sure. 
Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace — 
Else what delusion could thy sense allure 
To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place, 
Where e'en the hornet's hoarser, and the race 
Of filmy wing are feeble ? Honey here 
(Scarce as its rhyme) thou find'st not. Ah, 

beware 
Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear ! ' 
Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal 

lyre, 
Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus, 
I wail thy doom — 1 warm thee by the fire, 
And blab our secrets — do not thou betray UR * 
I give thee liberty, I give thee breath. 
To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death . 

To this Mrs. Hemans returned the following rejoindar : 

Soothed by the strain, the Wasp thus mad< 

reply — 
(The first, last time he sj oke not waspishly) 



1 Beelzebub is the king cf flies. 

a A beautiful allusion ti our starving weavers. 



5 as 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



• Too late, kind poet ! comes thine aid, thy song, 
To aught first starved, then bottled up so long. 
Yet for the warmth of this thy genial fire, 
Take a Wasp's blessing ere his race expire : — 
Never may provost's foot fii d entrance here ! 
Never may baillie's voice invade thine ear ! 
Never may housemaid wipe the verd antique 
From coin of thine — Assyrian, Celt, or Greek ! 
Never may Eurus cross thy path ! — to thee 
May winds and wynds ' alike propitious be ! 
And when thou diest (live a thousand years !) 
May friends fill classic bottles * with their tears ! 
I can no more — receive my parting gasp ! — 
Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering 
Wasp ! " 



TO CAROLINE. 

When thy bounding step I hear, 
And thy soft voice, low and clear ; 
When thy glancing eyes I meet, 
In their sudden laughter sweet — 
Thou, I dream, wert surely bom 
For a path by care unworn ! 
Thou must be a sheltered flower, 
With but sunshine for thy dower. 

Ah, fair child ! not e'en for thee 
May this lot of brightness be ; 
Yet, if grief must add a tone 
To thine accents now unknown ; 
If within that cloudless eye 
Sadder thought must one day lie. 
Still I trust the signs which tell 
On thy life a light shall dwell, 
Light — thy gentle spirit's own, 
From within around thee thrown. 



THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 

" Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a flowv'.r 
01 the torrid wastes of Africa ? The affecting mention of the in- 
fluence of a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of 
laffering and despondency, in tlie iieart of the same savage cou • 
toy, is familiar to every one." — Uowitt's " Book of the Seasona." 

Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 
O lonely, loneliest flower ! 

1 Alluding to antiquarian visits to these renowned closes 
« Referring to certain precious la;hrjmatori&s in ttie pos- 
*MB:on of Air. Sharne. 



Where the sound of song hath never passed 
From human hearth or bower ? 

I pity thee, for thy heart of love. 

For that glowing heart, that fain 
Would breathe out joy with each \^ln(l U 
rove — 

In vain, lost thing ! in vain ! 

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, 

For thy glory's fleeting hour. 
For the desert place, thy living tomb — 

O, lonely, loneliest flower ! 

I said — but a low voice made reply, 

" Lament not for the flower ! 
Though its blossoms all unmarked must die, 

They have had a glorious dower. 

"Though it bloom afar from the minstrel't 
way, 

Andthe paths where lovers tread ; 
Yet strength and hope^ like an inborn day, 

By its odors have been shed. 

"Yes S dews more sweet than ever fell 

O'er island of the blest 
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, 

On a suflering human breast. 

•* A wai? ierer came, as a stricken deer. 

O'er thv vaste of burning sand. 
He bore the wound of an Arab spear, 

He fled from a ruthless band. 

" And dreams of home in a troubled tide 

Swept o'er his darkening eye, 
As he lay down by the fountain side, 

In his mute despair to die. 

«' But his glance was caug^ht by the desert I 
flower, 

The precious boon of Heaven ; 
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower. 

To his fainting heart was given. 

" For the bright flower spoke of One aoore — 

Of the presence felt to brood, 
With a spirit of pervading love. 
O'er the wildest solitude. 

«♦ O, the seed was thrown those wastes among 
i In a blessed and gracious hour. 
' For the lorn rose in hcai-t made strongs 



By tl.\e lonelv, loneliest flower ! 



HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 6»V 


HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 


INTRODUCTORY VERSES. 


Which, waiting but that balmy fall, 




In hidden beauty lay. 


0, BLEST art thou whose steps may rove 




Through th? green paths of vale and grove, 


E'en now full -jiany a blossom's bell 


Qr, leaving all their channs below, 


With fragrance fills the shade ; 


Climb the wild mountain's airy brow, — 


And verdure clothes each grassy dell. 




In brighter tints arrayed. 


And gaze afar o'er cultured plains, 




And cities with their stately fanes, 


But mark ! what arch of varied hue 


And forests, that beneath thee lie. 


From heaven to earth is bowed ? 


And ocean mingling with the sky. 


Haste, ere it vanish ! — haste to view 




The rainbow in the cloud ! 


"For man can show thee nought so fair 




A.8 Nature's varied marvels there ; 


How bright its glory ! there behold 


And if thy pure and artless breast 


The emerald's verdant rays. 


Oan feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 


The topaz blends its hue of gold 




With- the deep ruby's blaze. 


For thee the stream in beauty flows, 




For thee the gale of summer blows ; 


Yet not alone to charm thy sight 


Ajid, in deep glen and wood walk free, 


Was given the vision fair — 


Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 


Gaze on that arch of colored light, 




And read God's mercy there. 


But happier far. if then thy soul 




Can soar to Him who made the whole. 


It tells us that the mighty deep. 


If to thine eye the simplest flower 


Fast by the Eternal chained. 


Portray His bounty and His power ! 


No more o'er earth's domain shall sweop, 




Awful and unrestrained. 


If, in whate'er is bright or grand. 




Thy mind can trace his viewless hand ; 


It tells that seasons, heat and cold, 


If Nature's music bid thee raise 


Fixed by his sovereign will, 


Thy song of gratitude and praise ; 


Shall, in their course, bid man behold 




Seed time and harvest still ; 


If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught, 




Lead to His throne the raptured thought ; 


That still the flower shall deck the field, 


If there thou lov'st His love to read — 


When vernal zephyrs blow, 


Then, wanderer ! thou art blest indeed. 


That still the vine its fruit shall yield. 




When autumn sunbeams glow. 




Then, child of that fau: earth ! which y«* 


THE RAINBOW. 


Smiles with each charm endowed, 




Bless thou His name, whose mercy set 


: do let my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a 


The rainbow in the cloud ! 


SOTenant between me and the earth." — Genesis ix. 13. 




Soft falls the mild, reviving shower 




From April's changeful skies, 




And raindrops bend each trembling flower 


THE SUN. 


They tinge with richer dyes. 






The sun comes forth : each moimtain heiglii 


^oon shall their genial influence call 


Glows with a tinge of rosy light, 


A thousand buds to-day, 


And flowers that slumbered through the niaht 



i90 HYMNS FOli 


CHILDHOOD. 


Their dewy leaves unfold ; 


Through cities or through shades, they flo-^ 


A. flood of splendor bursts on high, 


To the same boundless deep. 


A-nd ocean's breast gives back a sky- 




All steeped in molten gold. 


0, thus, whate'er our path of life, 




Through sunshine or through gloom, 


0, thou art glorious, orb of day ! 


Through scenes of quiet or of strife, 


Exulting nations hail thy ray, 


Its end is stiU the tomb. 


Creation swells a choral lay 




Co welcome thy return ; 


The chief whose mighty deeds we hail, 


From thee all nature draws her hues, 


The monarch throned on high, 


Thy beams the insect's wing suffuse, 


The peasant in his native vale — 


And in the diamond burn. 


AU journey on to die ! 


Yet must thou fade ! When earth and heaven 


But if t/uj guardian care, my God ! 


By earth and tempest shall be riven, 


The pilgrim's course attend. 


Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, 


I will not fear the dark abode 


Sun ! must fall at last ; 


To which my footsteps bend. 


Another heaven, another earth, 




New power, new glory shall have birth, 


For thence thine all-redeeming Son, 


When all we see is past. 


Who died the world to save. 




In light, in triumph, rose, and won 


But He who gave the word of might. 


The victory from the grave. 


«« Let there be light," — and there was light, — 




Who bade thee chase the gloom of night, 


• 


And beam the world to bless ; 




Forever bright, forever pure, 




Alone unchanging shaU endure. 




The Sun of Righteousness ! 


THE STARS. 




« The heavens declare the glory of God, and ihe flrnument iho* 





eth his handiwork." — Psalm xix. L 




No cloud obscures the summer sky. 


TFF. RIVERS. 


The moon in brightness walks on high 


Go ! trace th' unnumbered streams, o'er earth 


And, set in azure, every star 


That wind their devious course, 


Shines, a pure gem of heaven, afar ! 


That draw from Alpine heights their bii ,h, 




Deep vale, or cavern source. 


Child of the earth ! 0, lift thy glance 




To yon bright firmament's expanse ; 


Some by majestic cities glide, 


The glories of its realm explore. 


Proud scenes of man's renown ; 


And gaze, and wonder, and adore ' 


Some lead their solitary tide 




♦VTiere pathless forests frown. 


Doth it not speak to every sense 




The marvels of Omnipotence 


Borne calmly roll o'er golden sands. 


Seest thou not there the almig\ity Name 


Where Afric's deserts lie ; 


Inscribed in characters of flame ? 


K)x spread, to clothe rejoicing lands 




With rich fertility. 


Count o'er these lamps of quenchless lighs 




That sparkle through the shades of night : 


These bear the bark, whose stately sail 


Behold them ! can a mortal boast 


Exulting seems to swell ; 


To number that celestial host ? 


NMiile these, scarce rippled by a gale. 




Sleep ip the lonely dell. 


Mark well each little star, whose rays 




In distant splendor meet thy gaze : 


Vet or., aake, though swift or slow 


Each is a world, by Him sustained 


Their various waves may sweep. 


Who from eternity hath reijjnod. 



HYMXS FOR 

1 


CHILDHOOD. e>») 


Each, kindled not for earth alone, 


And, fraught with peril, daily errow 


Hath circling planets of its own, 


Formed by an insect's power ; 


And beinf^s, whose existence springs 




From Him, the all-powerful King of kings. 


Of sea fires, which at dead of night 




Shine o'er the tides afar. 


Haply, those glorious beings know 


And make th' expanse of ocean bright, 


No stain of guilt, or tear of woe ; 


As heaven with many a star. 


But, raising still th' adoring voice, 




Forever in their God rejoice. 


God ! thy name they well may praise 




"Who to the deep go down. 


What then art thou, child of clay ! 


And trace the wonders of thy ways 


Amid creation's grandeur, say ? 


Where rocks and biUows frown ! 


E'en as an insect on the breeze, 




E'en as a dewdrop, lost in seas ! 


If glorious be that awful deep 




No human power can bind, 


Yet fear thou not ! The sovereign Hand 


What then art tJwuy who bidd'st it keep 


Which spread the ocean and the land. 


W^ithin its bounds confined ! 


And hxmg the rolling spheres in air, 




Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care ! 


Let heaven and earth in praise unite : 




Eternal praise to thee. 


Be thou at peace ! Th' all-seeing Eye, 


Whose word can rouse the tempest's might 


Pervading earth, and air, and sky — 


Or still the raging sea ! 


The searching glance which none may flee, 




Is still in mercy tur ^ed on thee. 


— 




THE THUNDER STORM. 


THE OCEAN. 


Deep, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky 




Dead stillness reigns in air ; 


" They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great 


There is not e'en a breeze, on high 


rate-s; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the 
leep." — Psalm cvii. 23, 24. 


The gossamer to bear. 


He that in venturous barks hath been 


The woods are hushed, the w aves at rest, 


A wanderer on the deep, 


The lake is dark and still, 


Can tell of many an awful scene, 


Reflecting on its shadowy breast 


Where storms forever sweep. 


Each form of rock and hill. 


For many a fair, majestic sight 


The Kme leaf waves not in the grove, 


Hath met his wandering eye. 


The rose tree in the bower ; 


Beneath the streaming northern light, 


The birds have ceased their songs of lore, 


Or blaze of Indian sky. 


Awed by the threatening hour. 


Go ! ask him of the whirlpool's roar. 


'Tis noon ; yet nature's calm profound 


Whose echoing thunder peals 


Seems as at midnight deep . 


Loud, as if rushed along the shore 


But hark ! what peal of awful sound 


An army's chariot wheels ; 


Breaks on creation's sleep ? 


Of icebergs, floating o'er the main, 


The thunder burst ! its rolling might 


Or fixed upon the coast. 


Seems the firm hills to shake ; 


Like glittering citadel or fane, 


And in terrific splendor bright 


Mid the bright realms of frost ; 


The gathered Kghtmngs break. 


Of CDral rocks from waves below 


Yet fear not, shrink not thou, mv child 


In steep ascent that tower. 


Though by the bolt's descent 



592 HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 


Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled, 


Around the o'erhanging rock ; 


And the wide forests rent. 


Fearless they skim the angry wave, 




Or, sheltered in their sea-beat cave, 


Doth not thy God behold thee still, 


The tempest's fury mock. 


With all- surveying eye ? 




Doth not his power all nature fill, 


Where Afric's burning realm expands, 


Around, beneath, on high ? 


The ostrich haunts the desert sands, 




Parched by the blaze of day ; 


Know, hadst thou eagle pinions free, 


The swan, where northern rivers glide. 


To track the realms of air, 


Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide 


Thou couldst not reach a spot, where he 


Floats graceful on her way. 


Would not be with thee there ! 






The condor, where the Andes tower, 


In the wide citj'-'s peopled towers. 


Spreads his broad wing of pride and power 


On the vast ocean's plains. 


And many a storm defies ; 


'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers. 


Bright in the Orient realms of mom. 


Alike the Almighty reigns ! 


All beauty's richest hues adorn 




The bird of paradise. 


Then fear not, though the angry sky 




A thousand darts should cast ; 


Some, amidst India's groves of palm. 


Why should we tremble, e'en to die, 


And spicy forests breathing balm, 


And be with Him at last ? 


Weave soft their pendent nest ; 




Some, deep in Western Avilds, display 




Their fairy form and plumage gay. 




In rainbow colors dressed. 


THE BIRDS. 




iw not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of 
them is forgotten before God ? "— St. Luke xii. 6. 


Others no varied song may pour, 

May boast no eagle plume to soar, 

No tir>ts of light may wear ; 


Tribes of the air ! whose favored race 


Yet know, oui heavenly Father guidsR 


May wander through the realms of space, 


The least of these, and well provides 


Free guests of earth and sky 5 


For each with tenderest care. 


In form, in plumage, and in song, 




What gifts of nature mark your throng 


Shall he not tnen thy guardian be ? 


With bright variety ! 


Will not his aid extend to thee f 




0, safely mayst thou rest ! — 


Nor differ less your forms, your flight. 


Trust in his love ; and e'en should pain. 


Your dwellings hid from hostile sight, 


Should sorrow, tempt thee to complain. 


And the wild haunts ye love ; 


Know what he wills is best ! 


Birds of the gentle beak ! ^ how dear 




Your wood note to the wanderer's ear. 




In shadowy vale or grove ! 




Far other scenes, remote, sublime, 


THE SKYLARK. 


Where swain or hunter may not climb 
The mountain eagle seeks ;~ 


child's morning hvmn. 


Alone he reigns a monarch there. 


The skylark, when the dews of mom 


Scarce will the chamois' footstep dare 


Hang tremulous on flower and thorn. 


Ascend his Alpine peaks. 


And violets round his nest exhale 




Their fragrance on the early gale, 


Others there are that make their home 


To the first sunbeam spreads his winga 


"\NTiere the white billows roar and foam 


Buoyant with joy, and soars and sings 


VmA. 


He rests not on the leafy spray 
To warble his exulting iay ; 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



6iH 



But high above the morning cloud 
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud, 
And swells, when nearest to the sky, 
Hii4 notes of sweetest ecstasy. 

Thus, my Creator ! thus the more 
My spirit's wing to thee can soar, 
The more she triumphs to behold 
Thy love in all thy works unfold, 
And bids her hymns of rapture be 
Meet glad, when rising most to thee ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

child's evening hymn. 

When twilight's gray and pensive hour 
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower. 
And bids the solitary star 
Shine in pale beauty from afar ; 

When gathering shades the landscape veil, 
And peasants seek their village dale. 
And mists from river wave arise. 
And dew in every biussoni lies ; 

When evening's primrose opes to shed 
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed ; 
When glowworms in the wood walk light 
Their lamp to cheer the traveller's sight ; 

At that calm hour, so still so pale, 
Awakes the lonely nightingale ; 
And from a hermitage of shade 
Fills with her voice the forest glade. 

And sweeter far that melting voice 
Than all which through the day rejoice ; 
And still shall bard and wanderer love 
The twilight music of the grove. 

Father in heaven ! O, thus when day 
With all its cares hath passed away. 
And silent hours waft peace on earth. 
And hush the louder strains of mirth ; 

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer 
To thee my spirit's offering bear — 
Yon star, my signal, set on high. 
For vesper hymns of piety. 

So may thy mercy and thy power 
Protect me through the midnight hour, 
75 



And balmy sleep and visions blest 
Smile on thy servant's bed of lest. 



THE NORTHERN SPRING. 

When the soft breath of spring goes foith 
Far o'er the mountains of the North, 
How soon those wastes of dazzling snow 
With life, and bloom, and beauty glow ! 

Then bursts the verdure of the plains ; 
Then break the streams from icy chains , 
And the glad reindeer seeks no more 
Amidst deep snows his mossy store. 

Then the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen 
Fringed tenderly with living green ; 
And roses, in their brightest dyes. 
By Lapland's founts and lakes arise. 

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom 
And the cold fetters of the tomb, 
Thus shall the blessed Redeemer's voice 
Call forth his servants to rejoice. 

For He, whose word is truth, hath said, 
His power to life shall wake the dead, 
And summon those he loves on high, 
To •* put on immortality ! " 

Then, all its transient sufferings o'er, 
On wings of light the soul shall soar, 
Exulting, to that blest abode 
Where tears of sorrow never flowed.. 



PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVni 

'Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the hearme 
praise him in the heights." 

Praise ye the Lord ! on every height 

Songs to his glory raise ! 
Ye angel hosts, ye stars of night, 

Join in immortal praise ! 

O heaven of heavens ! let praise flu sweilirg 

From all thine orbs be sent ! 
Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling 

Above the flrmament ! 



194 LYKICS. 


For his the word which gave you birth, 


Creatures of life that wing the skies, 


And majesty, and might : 


Or track the plains for food ! 


3Vaise to the Highest from the earth, 




And let the deeps unite ! 


Judges of nations ! kings, whose hand 




Waves the proud sceptre high ! 


' ) fire and vapor, hail and snow ! 


youths and virgins of the land ! 


Ye servants of his will ; 


age and infancy ! 


stormy winds ! that only blow 




His mandates to fulfil ; 


Praise ye his name, to whom alone 




All homage should be given ; 


Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise ! 


Whose glory from th' eternal throne 


Fair cedars of the wood ! 


Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven I 


NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 


TO 

MRS. LAWRENCE, 


OP WAVERTREE HALL, HER FRIEND 


, AND THE SISTER OF HER FRIEND 


COLONEL D'AGUILAR, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, IN REMEMBRANCB OF | 


MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED 


HOURS, BY FELICIA HEMAN8. 


NATIONAL LilKICS. 


Where'er a bless6d home hath been 




That now is home no more : 


THE THEMES OF SONG. 


A place of ivy, darkly green, 




Where laughter's light is o'er. 


■ Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 




And melancholy fear subdued by faith." — Woedswoeth. 






Where'er by some forsaken grave, 


Where shall the minstrel find a theme ? 


Some nameless greensward heap. 


— Where'er, for freedom shed, 


A bird may sing, a wild flower wave. 


Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, 


A star its vigil keep. 


Amidst the mountains, red., 






Or where a yearning hejirt of old, 


Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove 


A dream of shepherd men. 


Bears record to the faith 


With forms of more than earthly mould 


Of love — deep, holy, fervent love, 


Hath peopled grot or glen. 


Victor o'er fear and death. 






There may the bard's high themes be found «■ 


Where'er a chieftain's crested brow 


We die, we pass away ; 


^ Too soon hath been struck down, 


But faith, love, pity — these are bound 


Or a bright virgin head laid low, 


To earth without decay. 


Wearing its youth's first crown. 






The heart that bums, the cheek tha 


Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 


glows, 


Through storm and summer air, 


The tear from hidden springs, 


Telling, that all around have striven 


The thorn and glory of the rose — 


Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 


These are undying things. 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 



d9« 



Wave after wave of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, 

Th' exhaustless flood rolls on. 



RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOL- 
DIERS AFTER VICTORY. 

TO THE AIR OF " All RHEIN, AM RHEIW." 

SINGLE VOICE. 

It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine ! (bis.) 

Sing on the march with every banner v/aving — 
Sing brothers 1 'tis the Rhine ! (bis.) 

CHORUS. 

The Rhine ! the Rhine ! our own imperial river ! 

Be glory on thy track ! 
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver — 

We bear thee freedom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail ! hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of 
water. 

Even as my mother's song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 

And heart and arm grew strong ! 

CHOEUS. 

Roll proudly on ! — brave blood is with thee 
sweeping, 
Poured out by sons of thine, 
NVhere sword and spirit forth in joy were leap- 
ing. 
Like thee, victorious Rhine ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Home ! home ! Thy glad wave hath a tone of 
greeting, 
Thy path is by my home, 
Even now my children count the hours till 
meeting : 
O ransomed ones ! I come. 

CHORUS. 

Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee 
never ! 

Soand on by hearth and shrine ! 
Bing through the hills that thou art free forever — 

Lift up thy voice, O Rhine ! 

['* I wish you soula have heard Sir Walter Scott describe 
* glorious 8'ght, wb ch had *)een w tnessed by a friend of 



his — the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by th« 
German army of liberators on their victorious return from 
France. ' At the first pleam of the river,' he said, ' they ail 
burst forth into the national chant, ./3m Rhein! Am fl/iem." 
They were two days passing over ; and the rocks and tli'^ 
castle were ringing to the song the whole time — for each 
band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossack.- 
with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their storm\ 
war music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled 
forth the chorus, 'Am Rhein! Am Rhein! ' " — Jilt.^uitT\i^ 
lettfr. 

This anecdote, (on which was founded Mrs. Hemans's 
own " Rhine Song,") and the look and tone wi!h which it 
was related, made an impression on her memory which 
nothing could etTace. The very name of the " Father 
Rhine," the " exulting and abounding river," (how often 
would she quote that magnificent line of Lord Byron's!) 
had always worked upon her like a spell, conjuring up a 
thousand visions of romance and beauty ; and Haydn's in- 
spiring Rheinweinlied, with its fine, rich tide of floiving har 
mony, was one of the airs she most delighted in " You 
are quite right," she wrote to a friend who had echoed her 
enthusiasm, " it was the description of that noble Rhine 
scene which interested me more than any part of Sir Wal- 
ter's conversation ; and I wished more that you could have 
heard it than all the high legends and solemn scenes o< 
which we spoke that day."] 



A SONG OF DELOS. 

[The Island of Delos was considered of svch peculiai 
sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to b« 
desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the follow 
ing poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be con- 
veyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sick- 
ness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewel in a sudden 
flow of unpremeditated song.] 

" Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature, 
Je vous dois une larrne aux herds de men tombeau ; 
L'air est si parfume ! la lumiere est si pure I 
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beaul"— Lamabtihk 

A SONG was heard of old — a low, sn^eet song, 
On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle, 
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle gu'l — 
Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien, 
Lit with a life too perilously bright — 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying ! — but fjr her. 
The child of beauty and of poesy. 
And of soft Grecian skies — O, who may dreai* 
Of all that from her changeful eye flashed forth, 
Or glanced more quiveringly through starri 

tears, 
As on her land's rich -vision, fane o'er fane 
Colored with loving light, she gazed her last, 
Her young life's last, that hour ! From he/ 

pale brow 
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back, 
And bending forward, as the spirit swayed 



496 



LYRICS. 



The rfted-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan music of her wild fare- 
well 
O'er dancing waves : — *' O, linger yet ! " she 
cried, — 

" O, linger, linger on the oar ! 

O, pause upon the deep ! 
That I may gaze yet once, once more 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and 

steep ! 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet 

shore — 
O, linger, linger on the parting oar ! 

" I see tlie laurels fling back showers 

Of soft light still on many a shrine ; 
I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming 

line ; 
T hear a sound of flutes — a swell of song — 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng ! 

" 0, linger, Minger on the oar, 

Beneath my native sky ! 
Let my life part from that bright shore 
With day's last crimson — gazing let me die ! 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! — slowly should be 

borne 
The voyager that never shall return. 

" A fatal gift hath been thy dower, 

Lord of the lyre ! to me ; 
With song and wreath from bower to bower, 
Sisters went bounding Hke young Oreads free ; 
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours 

apart, 
Have lain and listened to my beating heart. 

*♦ Now, wasted by the inborn fire, 

I sink to early rest ; 
The ray that lit the incense pyre 
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
^O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon 

I go, 
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow ! 

" Bright isle ! might but thine echoes keep 

A tone of my farewell, 
One tender accent, low and deep. 
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to 

dwell ! 
Might my last breath send music to thy 

shore ! 
— O, linger, seamen ! linger on the oar ! 



ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTOR! 



' Fill high the bowl with Samian wine I 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade." 



Btsok. 



lo ! they come, they come ! 

Garlands for every shrine ! 
Strike lyres to greet them home ; 

Bring roses, pour ye wine ! 

Swell, swell the Dorian flute 

Through the blue, triumphant sky I 

Let the cittern's tone salute 
The sons of victory. 

With the off"ering of bright blood 

They have ransomed hearth and tomb) 

Vineyard, and field, and flood ; — 
lo ! they come, they come ! 

Sing it where olives wave, 

And by the glittering sea, 
And o'er each hero's grave — 

Sing, sing, the land is free ! 

Mark ye the flashing oars, 

And the spears that light the deep 
How the festal sunshine pours 

Where the lords of battle sweep ! 

Each hath brought back his shield ; — 
Maid, greet thy lover home ! 

Mother, from that proud field, 
lo ! thy son is come ! 

Who murmured of the dead ? 

Hush, boding voice ! We know 
That many a shining head 

Lies in its glory low. 

Breathe not those names to-day I 
They shall have their praise ere long 

And a power all hearts to sway, 
In ever-burning song. 

But now shed flowers, pour wine 
To hail the conquerors home ! 

Bring wreaths for every shrine — 
lo ! they come iney come I 



NAPLES. 

A SONG OF THE SIREN. 

" Then gentle winds nrote, 
With many a mingled close 
Of wild iEolian s'und and mountain odor ka 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 



Bit 



Where the clear Baian Ocean 

Welters with air-like motion 

Within, above, around its bowers of starry green." 

Shellet. 

Still is the Siren warbling on thy shore, 
Bright city of the waves ! Her magic song 
Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy, 
Fills thy soft summer air : — and while my 

gl&nce 
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay 
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear ; and thus to thee. 
Daughter of sunshine ! doth the Siren sing. 

** Thine is the glad wave's flashing play, 
Thine is the laugh of the golden day — 
The golden day, and the glorious night. 
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in 

light ! 
- Forget, forget, that thou art not free ! 
Queen of the summer sea. 

" Favored and crowned of the earth and sky ! 

Thine are all voices of melody, 

Wandering in moonlight through fane and 

tower. 
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower ; 
Hark ! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea — 
Forget that thou art not free ! 

Let the wine flow in thy marble halls ! 
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls ! 
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, 
And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 
Queen of the day and the summer sea. 

Forget that thou art not free ! " 

So doth the Siren sing, while sparkling waves 
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully, 
O city of the deep ! from Sibyl grots 
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore 
Take up the cadence of her strain alone. 

Murmuring — " Thou art not free ! " 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 

[The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius,^ fell 
ncbly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkainp by 
night He had left liis regiment, that of Auvergne, at a 
ihort distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an ambus- 
wide of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death 
fhe made the least sign of their vicinity. With tlieir bayo- 
nets at his breafc', he raised his voice, and calling aloud, " A 
Hioi, Auvergne cos sont les cnnemis ! " fe#l, pierced with 
laorta Mows.] 



Alone through gloomy forest shades 

A soldier went by night ; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, 

No star shed guiding light. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round 
The youth all cheerly passed ; 

Unchecked by aught of boding sound 
That muttered in the blas-o. 

Where were his thoughts that lonely houi 
— In his far home, perchance ; 

His father's hall, his mother's bower, 
'Midst the gay vines of France « 

Wandering from battles lost and won. 

To hear and bless again 
The rolling of the wide Garonne, 

Or murmur of the Seine. 

Hush ! hark ! — did stealing steps go by ? 

Came not faint whispers near ? 
No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh 

Amidst the foliage sere. 

Hark yet again ! — and from his hand 
What grasp hath wrenched the blade ? 

— O, single 'midst a hostile band. 
Young soldier ! thou'rt betrayed \ 

*' Silence ! " in undertones they cry — 
" No whisper — not a breath ' 

The sound that warns thy comraaes nirix 
Shall sentence thee to death." 

Still, at the bayonet's point he stood 
And strong to meet the blow ; 

And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, 
<• Arm, arm, Auvergne ! the foe ! " 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle call 
He heard their tumults grow ; 

And sent his dj-ing voice through all- 
** Auvergne, Auvergne ! the foe!" 



THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THh 
CONQUEROR, 

AT CA.EN, IN NOKMANDT, 1087. 

I" At the day appointed for the king's interment, Pm>J« 
Henry, his third son, the Nonnan prelates, and a multitudi ' 
of clergy and people, assembled in the Church of St. Ste^ 
pher which the conqueror iuid founded. The mass had besf 



>98 LYRICS. 


performed, the corpse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop 


" The land that I have tilled 


of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased' 


Hath yet its brooding breast 


when a voice from the crowd exclaimed, ' He whom you 


have praised was a rol)ber. The very land on which you 


With my home's white ashes filled, 


stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father ; and, 


And it shall not give him rest ! 


in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.' The 




speaker was Asceline Fitz-Arthur, who had often, but fruit- 


"Each pillar's massy bed 

Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 


lessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After 
some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him six- 


ty shillings for the grave, and promised that he should re- 


Away ! bestow your dead 


ceive the full value of his land. The ceremony was then 


Where no wrong against him cries.' 


continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of 




•tone " — LiNGARD, vol. ii. p. 98.] 


Shame glowed on each dark face 


Lowly upon his bier 


Of those proud and steel-girt men, 


The royal conqueror lay ; 


And they bought with gold a place 


Baron and chief stood near, 


For their leader's dust e'en then. 


Silent in war array. 






A little earth for him 


Down the long minster's aisle 


Whose banner flew so far ! 


Crowds mutely gazing streamed ; 


And a peasant's tale could dim 


Altar and tomb the while 


The name, a nation's star ! 


Through mists of incense gleamed. 






One deep voice thus arose 


And, by the torches' blaze, 


From a heart which wrongs had riven : 


ITie stately priest had said 


0, who shall number those 


High words of power and praise 


That were but heard in heaven ? 


To the glory of the dead. 




They lowered him, with the sound 




Of requiems, to repose ; 




When from the throngs around 




A solemn voice arose : — 






SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT 


*« Forbear ! forbear ! " it cried ; 




«' In the holiest Name, forbear ! 


NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE! 


He hath conquered regions wide, 




But he shall not slumber there ! 


Near thee, still near thee ! — o'er thy pathway 




gliding, 


" By the violated hearth 


Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 


Which made way for yon proud shrine ; 


Life's veil infolds thee still, our eyes dividing, 


By the harvests which this earth 


Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 


Hath borne for me and mine ; 


Not 'midst the festal throng, 




In halls of mirth and song ; 


♦* By the house e'en here o'erthrowTi 


But when thy thoughts are deepest. 


On my brethren's native spot ; 


When holy tears thou weepest, 


Hence ! with his dark renown 


Know then that love is nigh ! 


Cumber our birthplace not ! 






When the night's w^hisper o'er thy harpstringi 


" Will my sire's unransomed field. 


creeping. 


O'er which your censers wave. 


Or the sea music on the sounding shore. 


To the buried spoiler yield 


Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, 


Soft slumbers in the grave ! 


Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 




When every thought and prayer 


'« The tree before him fell 


We loved to breathe and share. 


Which we cherished many a year ; 


On thy full heart returning. 


But its deep root yet shall swell, 


Shall wake its voiceless yearning, 


And heave against his bier. 


Then feel me near once more ! 



SONGS OF STAIS, 59» 


Seta thee, still near thee ! — trust thy soul's 


Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning 


deep dreaming ! 


Thy dreamy glance. 


J, love is not an earthly rose to die ! 


Thou seek' St my home, where solemn stars ar« 


Even -when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, 


burning 


ITiine image wanders with me through the 


O'er night's expanse. 


sky. 




The fields of air are free, 


My home is near thee, loved one ! ani around 


Yet lonely, wanting thee ; 


thee, 


But when thy chains are falling. 


Where'er thou art ; 


When heaven its own is calling, 


Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bonmd 


Know then, thy guide is nigh ! 


thee. 


/ 


Doubt not thy heart ! 


f 


Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken : 




Let faith be given 


0, DROOP THOU NOT. 


To the still tones which oft our being waken 




They are of heaven. 


Chey sin who tell us love can die ! 




ITith life all other passions fly — 




111 others are but vanity. 




[n heaven ambition cannot dwell, 




Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 




Earthly these passions, as of earth — 




They perish where they drew their birth. 


SONGS OF SPi\TN. 


But love is indestructible 1 




Its holy flame forever burneth — 




From heaven it came, to heaven retumeth."— Southkt. 


ANCIENT BATTLE SONG 


0, ©Eoop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 


Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again ! 


Mine still to be ! 


Let the high word, Castile ! go resounding 


I tore through death, to brighter lands above, 


through Spain ! 


My thoughts of thee. 


And thou, free Asturias ! encamped on thp 




height. 


Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 


Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of £ght ! 


Our mingled prayer. 


Wake ! wake ! the old soil where thy children 


Our suiFering love, through long-devoted years, 


repose 


Went with me there. 


Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes ! 


It was not vain, the hallowed and the tried — 


The voices are mighty that swell from the past, 


It was not vain ! 


With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast j 


Still, though unseen, stUl hovering at thy side, 


The ancient sierras give strength to our tread, 


I watch again ! 


Their pines murmur song where bright blood 




hath been shed. 


From our o-vnti paths, our love's attesting bowers. 


— Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 


I am not gone ; 


And shout ye, "Castile! to the rescue fo* 


Id the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, 


Spain ! " 


Thou art not lone ; 




Kot lone, when by the haunted stream thou 


THE ZEGRI MAID. 


weepest — 




That stream whose tone 


[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Mcorirt 


Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 


tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rival* 


We two have known ; 


the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spa» 




ish romances.] 


Not lone, when movimfully some strain awaking 


The summer leaves were sighing 


Of days long past, 


Around the Zegri maid, ^ 


Prom thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking. 


To her low, sad song replying. 


Silent anl fast : 


As it filled the olive shade 



600 LYRICS. 


" Alas ! for her that loveth 


Thou shouldst have echoes 


Her land's, her kindred's foe ! 


For griefs deepest tone — 


Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, 


Flow, Rio Verde ! 


Should a Zegri's spirit go ? 


Softly flow on ! 


*♦ From thy glance, my gentle mother ! 


' 


I sink, with shame oppressed, 




And the dark eye of my brother 


SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO 


Is an arrow to my breast." 




Where summer leaves were sighing, 


Seek by the silvery Darro, 


Thus sang the Zegri maid. 


Where jasmine flowers have blown i 


While the crimson day was dying 


There hath she left no footsteps ? 


In the whispery olive shade. 


— Weep, weep ! the maid is gone ! 


« And for all this heart's wealth wasted, 


Seek where Our Lady's image 


This woe in secret borne, 


Smiles o'er the pine- hung steep : 


This flower of young life blasted, 


Hear ye not there her vespers ? 


Should I win back aught but scorn ? 


— Weep for the parted, weep ! 


By aught but daily dying 




Would my lone truth be repaid ? " 


Seek in the porch where vine leaves 


Where the olive leaves were sighing, 


O'ershade her father's head : 


Thus sang the Zegri maid. 


Are his gray hairs left lonely ? 




— Weep ! her bright soul is fled 


THE RIO VERDE SONG. 




[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in 


SPANISH EVENING HYMN. 


fte old ballad romances of that country for the frequent 




combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The 


Ave ! now let prayer and music 


»allad referring to this stream in Percy^s Reliques will be r©- 


Meet in love on earth and sea ! 


■!»mbered by many readers. 


Now, sweet Mother ! may the weary 


♦ Gentle river, gentle river! 


Turn from this cold world to thee ! 


L« J thy streams are stained with gore."] 




Flow, Rio Verde ! 


From the vride and restless waters 


In melody flow ; 


Hear the sailor's hynm arise ? 


Win her that weepeth 


From his watchfire 'midst the mountAinR, 


To slumber from woe ; 


Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 


Bid thy waves' music 




Roll through her dreams — 


Yet, when thus full hearts find voices. 


Grief ever loveth 


If o'erburdened souls there be. 


The kind voice of streams. 


Dark and silent in their anguish. 




Aid those captives ! set them free ! 


Bear her lone spirit 




Afar on the sound 


Touch them, every fount unsealing 


Back to her childhood. 


Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 


Her life's fairy ground ; 


Thou, the Mother of all sorrows, 


Pass like the whisper 


Aid ! 0, aid to pray and weep ! 


Of love that is gone — 


, 


Flow, Rio Verde ! 




Softly flow on ! 






BIRD THAT ART SINGING ON EBRi./U 


Dark glassy water 


SIDE! 


So crimsoned of yore ! 




Love, death, and sorrow 


Bird that art singing on Ebro's side ! 


Know <hy green shore. 


Where myrtle shado-<'8 make dim the tide, 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 



60i 



Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee ? 
Doth song a-^ail thy full heart to free ? 
-- Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 
Teach me the spell of thy melody. 

Bird ! is it blighted affection's pain 

W>«nce the sad sweetness flows through thy 

strain ? 
And is the wound of that arrow stilled 
When thy lone music the leaves hath filled ? 
— Bu-d of the midnight's purple sky ! 
Teach me the spell of thy melody. 



MOORISH GATHERING SONG. 

ZORZICO.* 

Chains on the cities ! gloom in the air ! 
Come to the hills ! fresh breezes are there. 
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers ! 
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. 

Come from the Darro ! — changed is its tone ; 
Come where the streams no bondage have known; 
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, 
Singing of freedom from steep to steep. 

Come from Alhambra ! — garden and grove 
Now may not shelter beauty or love. 
Blood on the waters ! death 'midst the flowers . 
— Only the sper r and the rock are ours. 



THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 

We heard thy name, O Mina ! 

Far through our hills it rang ; 
A sound more strong than tempests, 

More keen than armor's clang. 

The peasant left his vintage, 
The shepherd grasped the spear — 

We heard thy name, O Mina ! 
— The mountain bands are here. 

As eagles to the dayspring, 

As torrents to the sea. 
From every dark sierra 

So rushed our hearts to thee. 



' The Zorztco is an extremely wild and singularly an- 
tique Mori ah melody. 

76 



Thy spirit is our banner. 
Thine eye o\ir beacon sign^ 

Thy name our trumpet, Mina I 
— The mountain bands are thine 



MOTHER! O, SING ME TO REST. 

A CANCION. 

Mother ! O, sing me to rest 
As in my bright days departed : 
Sing to thy child, the sick hearted. 

Songs for a spirit oppressed. 

Lay this tired head on thy breast ! 
Flowers from the night dew are closing 
Pilgrims and mourners reposing : 

Mother ! O, sing me to rest ! 

Take back thy bird to its nest ! 
Weary is young life when blighted, 
Heavy this love unrequited : 

— Mother, 0, sing me to rest ! 



THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK 
RONCESVALLES. 

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore ; 

There are murmurs — but not of the torreni. 
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar. 

'Tis a day of the spear and the banner, 
Of armings and hurried farwells } 

Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards ! 
Or start from your old battle dells. 

There are streams of unconquered Asturiaa 
That have rolled with your fathers' free blood 

O, leave on the graves of the mighty 
Proud marks where thy children have stood ' 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 

AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 

[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band Ok 
shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in theii 
wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the 
sight of a tomb which bears this inscription — " Et in A'f- 
dia ego.''^\ 



/)2 LYRICS. 


They have wandered in their glee 




With the butterfly and bee ; 


THE WANDERING WIND. 


They have climbed o'er heathery swells, 




They have wound through forest dells ; 


The Wind, the wandering Wind 


Mountain moss hath felt their tread, 


Of the golden summer eves — 


Woodland streams their way have led ; 


Whence is the thrilling magic 


Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, 


Of its tones among the leaves ? 


Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, 


0, is it from the waters, 


^Jnto them have yielded up 


Or from the long tall grass ? 


Fragrant bell and starry cup : 


Or is it from the hollow rocks 


Chaplets are on every brow — 


Through which its breathings paa< ' 


What hath staid the wanderers now ? 




Lo ! a gray and rustic tomb, 


Or is it from the voices 


Bowered amidst the rich wood gloom ; 


Of all in one combined. 


Whence these words their stricken spirits 


That it -v\ins the tone of mastery ? 


melt, 


The Wind, the wandering Wind 1 


— *'I too, shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 


No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 




That with it come and go. 


There is many a summer sound 


They are not from the osiers. 


That pale sepulchre around ; 


Nor the fir trees whispering loTf • 


Through the shade young birds are glancing. 




Insect wings in sun streaks dancing ; 


They are not of the waters, 


Glimpses of blue festal skies 


Nor of the caverned hill ; 


Pouring in when soft winds rise ; 


'Tis the human love within us 


Violets o'er the turf below 


That gives them power to thriU. 


Shedding out their warmest glow ; 


They touch the links of memory 


Yet a spirit not its own 


Around our spirits twined. 


O'er the greenwood now is thrown ! 


And we start, and weep, and tremble 


Something of an undernote 


To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 


Through its music seems to float. 




Something of a stillness gray 




Creeps across the laughing day : 




Something dimly from those old words felt, 




~ *♦ I too, shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 


YE ARE NOT MISSED, FAIR FLO^VrERS ! 


Was some gentle kindred maid 


Ye are not missed, fair flowers, that late were 


In that grave with dirges laid ? 


spreading 


Some fair creature, with the tone 


The summer's glow by fount and breezy 


Of whose voice a joy is gone, 


grot ; 


Leaving melody and mirth 


There falls the dew, its fairy favors shedding — 


Poorer on this altered earth ? 


The leaves dance on, the yoimg bii-ds miss 


Is it thus, that so they stand, 


you not. 


Dropping flowers from every hand — 




Flowers, and lyres, and gathered store 


Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water. 


Ot red wild fruit prized no more ? 


lily ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone ; 


— No ! from that bright band of morn 


The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest 


Not one link hath yet been torn : 


daughter, 


'Tis the shadow of the tomb 


There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone> 


Falling o'er the summer bloom — 




O'er the flush of love and life 


And thou, meek hyacinth ! afar is roving 


Passing with a sudden strife ; 


The bee that oft thy trembling beils hath 


'Tis the low prophetic breath 


kissed. 


Murmuring from that house of death, 


Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! 'midst all thiagi 


Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, 


loving. 


- ♦♦ I too, sh spherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 


A joy to all — yet, yet ye ar3 r ot missed I 



SONGS FOR SUMMEL HOUKS. 604 


ITe, that were boni to lend the sunbeam glad- 


They wait for dews on earth, for stars above. 


ness, 


Then to breathe out their soul of tendemesi 


And the winds fragrance, wandering where 


Leave me not yet ! 


they list, 




'\ it were breathing words too deep in sadness, 




To say earth's human flowers not more are 




missed. 


THE ORANGE BOUGH. 




0, BRING me one sweet orange bough. 


THE WILLCW SONG. 


To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 




One bough, with pearly blossoms dressed. 


Willow ! in thy br«3i,y moan 


And bind it, mother ! on my breast ! 


I can hear a deeper tone ; 




Through thy leaves come whispering low, 


Go, seek the grove along the shore, 


Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. 


Whose odors I must breathe no more : 


WiQow, sighing willow ! 


The grove where every scented tree 




Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 


Many a mournful tale of old 




Heartsick love to thee hath told, 


0, Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 


Gathering from thy golden bough 


And wild farewell, are lingering there : 


Leaves to cool his burning brow. 


Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone 


Willow ! sighing willow ! 


My faint heart, even in death, would own 


Many a swan-like song to thee 


Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 


Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ! 


Life's parting sweetness round my head ; 


Many a lute its last lament 


And bind it, mother ! on my breast 


Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. 


When I am laid in lonely rest. 


Willow ! sighing willow ! 




Therefore, wave and murmur on ! 




Sigh for sweet affections gone, 




And for tuneful voices fled. 


THK. STREAM SET FREE 


And for love, whose heart hath bled, 




Ever, willow ! willow ! 


Flow on, rejoice, make music. 




Bright living stream set free ! 




The troubled haunts of care and strife 




Were not for thee ! 


LEAVE ME NOT YET. 






The woodland is thy country, 


UAiVB me not yet ! through rosy skies from far, 


Thou'rt all its own again ; 


But now the song birds to their nests return ; 


The wild birds are thy kindred race, 


The quivering image of the first pale star 


That fear no chain. 


On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 




Leave me not yet ! 


Flow on, rejoice, make music 




Unto the ghstening leaves ! 


NTot yet ! 0, hark ! low tones from hidden 


Thou, the beloved of balmy winds 


streams. 


And golden eves ! 


Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise ; 




Cheir voices mingle not with daylight dreams. 


Once more the holy starlight 


They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies : 


Sleeps calm upon thy breast, 


Leave me not yet ! 


Whose brightness bears no token mort 




Of man's unrest. 


Ky thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 


• 


love ! 


Flow, and let free-born music 


By day shut up in their own still recess ; 


Flow with thy wavy line. 



While the stockdove's lingering, loving voice 
Comes blent with thine. 

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee, 

Strings of the forest lyre, 
All filled with answering spirit sounds, 

In joy respire. 

Yet, 'midst thy song's glad changes, 

O, keep one pitying tone 
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee 

Their sadness lone. 

One sound, of all the deepest. 

To bring, like healing dew, 
A sense that nature ne'er forsakes, 

The meek and true. 

Then, then, rejoice, make music. 
Thou stream, thou glad and free ! 

The shadows of all glorious flowers 
Be set in thee ! 



THE SUMMER'S CALL.* 

Come away ! The sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 
O'er the very waters now, 

In their play, 
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow — 

Come away ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream. 

Come away ! 

All the air is filled with sound, 
Soft, and^ultry, and profound ; 
Murmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away ! 

1 * The Summer's Call." — This facult)' for realizing im- 
tlfes of the distant and the beautiful, amidst outward cir- 
turastances of apparently the most adverse influence, is thus 
gracefully illustrated by Washington Irving in the " Royal 
Poet " of his Sketch Book : " Some minds corrode and 
glow inactive under the loss of personal liberty ; others 
grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet 
to become ten ler and imaginative in the loneliness of con- 
Anemsn: He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, 
Uf], ks the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgiim cooped into a cage. 
Hew she doth chant her wonted tale 

in that her lonely hermitage ? 



Where the bee's deep music swella 

From the trembling ft^xglove beUs. 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy gloo» 
Darken each thick bed of bloom. 

Come away ! 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love hue glows ; 
Now the glowworm's lamp by nighl 

Sheds a ray. 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — 

Come away ! 
Where the fairy cup moss lies. 
With the wildwood strawberries. 

Come away ! 

Now each tree, by summer crowned^ 
Sheds its own rich twilight round 3 
Glancing there from sun to shade. 

Bright wings play ; 
There the deer its couch hath made 

Come away ! 
"WTiere the smooth leaves of the lime 
Glisten in their honey time. 

Come away — away ! 



O, SKYLARK, FOR THY WING 

O, Skylark, for thy wing ! 

Thou bird of joy and light, 
That I might soar and sing 

At heaven's empyreal height ! 

Even there her charming melody dolJi proTe 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.' 

ROOEB Li'ESTKAX * 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, ^ » 
is irrepressible, unconfinable ; and that, when the real v jr 
is shut out, it can create a world for itself, an^ Wtji a n icn 
mantle power can conjure up glorious shapes and Lrms 
and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the 
world of pomp and pageant tliat lived round Tasso in hi« 
dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the spleidid 
scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider The King"! 
Qiiair, composed by James of Scotland during his captivitj 
at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth o. 
the soul from the restraint and gloom of the pi Bon hous^ 



SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 



601 



With the heathery hills beneath me, 

Whence the streams in glory spring, 
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me, 

Skylark ! on thy wing ! 

Free, free, from earth-born fear, 

1 would range the bless6d skies, 
Through the blue, divinely clear, 

Where the low mists cannot rise ! 
And a thousand joyous measures 

From my chainless heart should spring, 
Like the bright rain's vernal treasxires. 

As I wandered on thy wing. 

But O, the silver cords 

That around the heart are spun, 
From gentle tones and words. 

And kind eyes that make our s\in ! 
To some low, sweet nest returning. 

How soon my love would bring 
There, there the dews of morning, 

O Skylark ! on thy wing ! 



SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Onb hour for distant homes to weep 
'Midst Afric's burning sands, 

One silent sunset hour was given 
To the slaves of many lands. 

They sat beneath a lonely palm, 
In the gardens of their lord ; 

And, mingling with the fountain's tune, 
Their songs of exile poured. 

And strangely, sadly did those lays 

Of Alp and ocean sound. 
With Afric's wild, red skies above. 

And solemn wastes around. 

Broken with tears were oft their tones, 
j^nd most when most they tried 

To breathe of hope and liberty. 
From hearts that inly died. 

So met the sons of many lands, 
Parted by mount and main ; 

So did they sing in brotherhood, 
Made kindred by the chain. 



THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 

In the proud old fanes of England 

My warrior fathers lie, 
Banners hang drooping o'er their d^ast 

With gorgeous blazonry. 
But thou, but thou, my brother ! 

O'er thee dark billows sweep — 
The best and bravest heart of all 

Is shrouded by the deep. 

In the old high wars of England 

My noble fathers bled ; 
For her lion kings of lance and speaz, 

They went do-wTi to the dead. 
But thou, but thou, my brother ! 

Thy lifedrops flowed for me — 
Would I were with thee in thy rest. 

Young sleeper of the sea ! 

In a sheltered home of England 

Our sister dwells alone, 
With quick heart listening for the soand 

Of footsteps that are gone. 
She little dreams, my brother ! 

Of the wild fate we have found ; 
I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave, 

Thou, by the dark seas bound 



THE ALPINE HORN. 

The Alpine horn ! the Alpine horn ! 

O, through my native sky 
Might I but hear its deep notes borne 

Once more — but once — and die ! 

Yet no ! 'Midst breezy hills thy breath, 

So full of hope and morn. 
Would win me from the bed of death— 

O joyous Alpine horn ! 

But here the echo of that blast. 

To many a battle known, 
Seems mournfully to wander past, 

A wild, shriU, wailing tone ! 

Haunt me no more ! for slavery's air 
Thy proud notes were not bom ; 

The dream but deepens my despair - 
Be hushed, thou Alpine horn ! 



1 

306 LYRICS. 


YE VOICES! 


FAR O'ER THE SEA. 


YE voices round my own hearth singing, 


Where are the vintage songs 


As the winds of May to memory sweet ! 


Wandering in glee ? 


Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing. 


Where dance the peasant hands 


Would those vernal tones the wanderer 


Joyous and free ? 


greet 


Under a kind blue sky, 


Once again ? 


Where doth my birthplace lie ? 




— Far o'er the sea ! 


Never, never ! Spring hath smiled and parted 




Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 


Where floats the myrtle scent 


O'er the green turf of the gentle hearted 


O'er vale and lea. 


Summer's hand the rose leaves may have 


When evening calls the dove 


shed 


Homewards to flee ? 


Oft again ! 


Where doth the orange gleam 




Soft on my native stream ? 


Or if still around my heart ye linger. 


— Far o'er the sea ! 


Yet, sweet voices ! there must change have 




come : 


Where are sweet eyes of love 


Fears have quelled the free soul of the singer. 


Watching for me ? 


Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home 


Where o'er the cabin roof 


Ne'er again ! 


Waves the green tree ? 




Where speaks the vesper tJtttme 




Still of a holy time ? 




— Far o'er the sea ! 


I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 


Dance on, ye vintage bands ! 




Fearless and free ; 


I DREAM of all things free ! 


Still fresh and greenly wave, 


Of a gallant, gallant bark 
That sweeps through storm and sea, 


My father's tree ! 
Still smile, ye kind, blue skies ! 


Like an arrow to its mark ! 


Though your son pines and dies 


Of a stag that o'er the hills 


Far o'er the sea ! 


Goes bounding in his glee ; 




Of a thousand flashing rills — 




Of all things glad and free. 






THE INVOCATION. 


I dream of some proud bird. 


0, ART thou still on earth, my lo re. 


A bright-eyed mountain king ! 


My only love ? 
Or smiling in a brighter home, 


In my visions I have heard 


The rushing of his wing. 


Far, far above ? 


I follow some wild river. 




On whose breast ao sail may be ; 


0, is thy sweet voice fled, my love, 


Dark woods around it shiver — 


Thy light step gone r 


I dream of all things free ! 


And art thou not, in earth or heaven, 




Still, still my own ? 


Of a happy forest child, 




With the fawns and flowers at play ; 


I see thee with thy gleaming hair, 


Of an Indian 'midst the wild. 


In midnight dreams ! 


With the stars to guide his way ; 


But cold, and clear, and spirit-like 


Of a chief his warriors leading, 


Thy soft eye seems. 


Of an archer's greenwood tree — 




\Ly heart in chains is bleeding, 


Peace in thy saddest hour, my love I 


And I dream of all things free ! 


Dwelt on thy brow ; 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. «0^ 


But Bomething mournfully divine 


Then the father gave his son the sword 


There shineth now ! 


Which a hundred fights had seen - 




*' Away .' and bear it back, my boy ! 


And silent ever is thy lip, 


All that it still hath been ! 


And pale thy cheek : 




O, art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's ? 


" Haste, haste ! The hunters of the foe are u^ 


Speak to me, speak ! 


and who shall stand 




The lion-like awakening of the roused indig 




nant land ? 




Our chase shall sound through each defiif 


THF. SONG OF HOPE. 


where swept the clarion's blast, 




With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormj 


Dboof not, my brothers ! I hear a glad strain ; 


ages past." 


We shall burst forth like streams from the winter 




night's chain ; 


Then the mother kissed her son with tears 


A flag is unfurled, a bright star of the sea. 


That o'er his dark locks fell : 


A ransom approaches — we yet shall be free ! 


'• I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er. 




Yet I stay thee not. Farewell ' " 


Where the pines wave, where the light chamois 




leaps, 


*' One moment ! but one moment give to part- 


Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps ; 


ing thought or word ! 


Where the snows glisten, the mountain rills 


It is no time for woman's tears when manhood f 


foam. 


heart is stirred. 


Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam. 


Bear but the memory of my love about thee in 




the fight. 


Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks 


To breathe upon th' aven^^ing sword a spell of 


are mei, 


keener might. 


Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet ! 




Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea — 


And a maiden's fond adieu was heard. 


Droop not, my brothers ! we yet shall be free ? 


Though deep, yet brief and low : 




«< In the vigil, in the conflict, love 1 




My prayer shall with thee go ! " 




" Come forth ! come as the torrent comes wheo 


MTSCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


the winter's chain is burst ! 




So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and 


THJi: CALL TO BATTLE. 


silence nursed. 




The night is passed, the silence o'er — on aV 


" Ah I then and there wag hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 


our hills we rise : 


And there were sudden partings, such as press 


We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no n^ore I 


The life from out young hearts, and choking sigha, 


the voice of battle cries." 


Which ne'er might be repeated."— Btkon. 




The vesper bell, from church and tower, 


There were sad hearts in a darkened home 


Had sent its djing sound ; 


When the brave had left their bower ; 


And the household, in the hush of eve, 


But the strength of prayer and sacrific« 


Were met their porch around. 


Was with them in that hour 


A voice rang through the olive wood, with a 




sudden trumpet's power — 




'« We rise on all our hills ! Come forth ! 'tis thy 


MIGNON'S SONG. 


country's gathering hour : 




fhere's a gleam of spears by every stream in 


TRANSLATED FROM OOETHB. 


each old battle deU. 




Come forth, young Juan ! Bid thy home a brief 


[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character n 
one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott 


aj id proud farewell ! " 


Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in ear 



808 



MISCELLANEOUS LYEICS. 



!y childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that 
land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and 
pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times 
break forth into the following song. The original has been 
let V) exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe,] 

" Kennst du da« Land wo die Citronen bluhn ? " 

ITnow'st thou the land where bloom the citron 

bowers, 
Where the gold orange lights the dusky grove ? 
High waves the laurel there, the n^yrtle flowers, 
And through a still blue heaven the sweet 

^inds rove. 
Know'st thou it well ? 

There, there, with thee, 
O friend ! O loved one ! fain mr steps would flee. 

Know'st thou the dwelling ? There the pillars 

rise, 
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow ; 
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes 
To sa;' — " Poor child ! what thus hath wrought 

thee woe ? " 
Know'st thou it well ? 

There, there, with thee, 
"my proteci-er ! homewards might I flee ! 

Know'st thou the mountain ? High its bridge 

is hung, 
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud 

his way ; 
There lurk the dragon race deep caves among, 
D'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent 

spray. 
Know'st tl-ou it well ? 

With thee, with thee. 
There lies my path, O father ! let us flee ! 



THE SISTERS.^ 

A BALLAD. 

< I GO, sveet sister ' yet my heart would linger 
witu thee fain, 

AJid unto every parting gift some deep remem- 
brance chain : 

Cake, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which 
once I loved to wear, 

Aj>d with it bind for festal scenes the dai-k 
'"vaves of thy hair ! 



1 This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recita- 
ive, relieved by music. It was tJius performed by two 
rrareful and highly-accomplished sisters. 



Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those rayei 

tresses weU, 
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone 

convent ceU." 

*• O, speak not thus, my Leonor ! why part 

from kindred love ? 
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my 

steps no more shall move ! 
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless 

throng ? 
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every 

tone of song. 
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or le 

me proudly twine 
Its wreath once more around that brow, that 

queenly brow, of thine." 

" O, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from 

shelter to detain ? 
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary lift 

again ? 
Sweet sister ! take the golden cross that I hare 

worn so long, 
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret 

woe and wrong. 
It could not still my beating heart ! but may it 

be a sign 
Of peace and hope, my gentle one ! when 

meekly pressed to thine." 

** Take back, take back tlie cross of gold, our 

mother's gift to thee — 
It would but of this parting hour a bitter token 

be; 
With funeral splendor to mine eye, it would but 

sadly shine. 
And tell of early treasures lost, oi joy no longer 

mine. 

sister ! if thy heart be thus with buried grief 

oppressed. 
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on 
my faithful breast ? " 

" Urge me no more ! A blight hath fallen upon 
my summer years ! 

1 should but darken thy young life with fruitless 

pangs and fears. 
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it 

for my sake, 
And sometimes from its silvery strings one rone 

of memory wake ! 
Smg to those chords by starUght's gleam our 

own sweet vesper nymn. 
And think that I too chant it then, far in m^ 

cloister dim." 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



60« 



" Yes ! I will take the silvery lute — and I will 

sing to thee 
A song we heard in childhood's days, even from 

our father's knee. 

sister ! sister ! are these notes amid forgotten 

things ? 
Do they not linger, as in love, on the familiar 

strings ? 
Beems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur 

in the strain ? 
Kind sister ! gentlest Leonor ! say, shall it plead 

in vain? " 

SONG. 

" Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Say not adieu ! 
Have we not been to thee 

Tender and true ? 

'Take not thy sunny smile 

Far from our hearth ! 
"With that sweet light wiD fade 
SurcmcT and mirth. 

" Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Can thy heart roam ? 
Wilt thou not pine to hear 

Voices from home ? 

" Too sad our love would be 

If thou wert gone ! 
Turn to us, leave us not ! 

Thou art our own ! " 

•• O sister ! hush that thrilling lute ! — O, cease 
that haunting lay ! 

Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes — yet, 
yet I cannot stay : 

Por weary, weary is my heart ! I hear a whis- 
pered call 

In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the 
blossom fall. 

1 cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines 

to. dwell 
Where the world's voice can reach no more 1 O, 
calm thee ! — Fare thee well ! " 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the young- 
er Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock 
above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a 
desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems pene- 
fated with the feeling of utter abandonment.] 
77 



Sound on, thou dark, unsl umbering sea 1 

My dirge is in thy moan 
My spirit finds response in thee 
To its own ceaseless cry — " Alone, alone 1 " 

Yet send me back one other word, 
Ye tones that never cease ! 

0, let your secret caves be stirred. 

And say, dark waters ! will ye give me jb«*» f 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh. 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts — and will the ivave reply ? 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world ! from thee 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And yet I loved that earth so well, 

With all its lovely things ! 
Was it for this the death wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quenched its living strings \ 

Let them lie silen-t at my feet ! 

Since, broken even as they, 
The heart whose music made them sweet 
Hath poured on desert sands its wealth awav 

Yet glory's light hath touched my nam«»- 

The laurel wreath is mine — 
With a lone heart, a weary frame, 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thina • 

Give to that cro-v\Ti, that burning crown. 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown. 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted goW 

Thou sea bird on the billow's crest ! 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest. 
And I, th' unsought, unwatched-for — I too com? I 

1, with this winged nature fraught. 
These visions wildly free. 

This boundless love, this liery thought — 
Alone I come — O, give me peace, dark sea 



DIRGE. 

Where shall we make her grave c 
O, where the wild flowers wavp 
In the free air 1 



#10 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


Where shower and singing bird 


Rose ! too much arrayed 


'Midst the young leaves are heard — 


For triumphal hours. 


There — lay her there ! 


Look'st thou through the sh&ie 




Of these mortal bowers. 


Harsh was the world to her — 


Not to disturb my soul, thou crowned oiw 4 tu 


Now may sleep minister 


flowers ! 


Balm for each ill : 




Low on sweet nature's breast 


As an eagle soaring 


Let the meek heart find rest, 


Through a sunny sky. 


Deep, deep, and stiU ! 


AS a clarion pouring 




Notes of victory. 


Murmur, glad waters ! by ; 


So dost thou kindle thoughts, for eart <y lift 


Faint gales ! with happy sigh, 


too high. / 


Come wandering o'er 




That green and mossy bed, 


Thoughts of rapture, flushmg 


Where, on a gentle head. 


Youthful poet's cheek ; 


Storms beat no more ! 


Thoughts of glory, rushing 




Forth in song to break. 


What though for her in vain 


But finding the springtide of rapid ^ung too 


Falls now the bright spring rain, 


weak. 


Plays the soft wind ? 




Yet still, from where she lies. 


Yet, festal rose ! 


Should blessed breathings rise, 


I have seen thee lying 


Gracious and kind. 


In t'ly bright repose 




Pillowed with the djnn^, 


Therefore let song and dew 


Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood 


Thence in the heart renew 


was flying. 


Life's vernal glow ! 




And o'er that holy earth 


Summer, hope, and love 


Scents of the violet's birth 


O'er that bed of pain 


Still come and go ! 


Met in thee, yet wove 




Too, too frail a chain 


O, then, where wild flowers wave 


In its embracing links the lovely to d«tain. 


Make ye her mossy grave, 




In the free air ! 


Smil'st thou, gorgeous flower •' 


Where shower and singing bird 


0, within the spells 


'Midst the young leaves are heard — 


Of thy beauty's power 


There — lay her there ! 


Something dimly dwells, 




At variance with a world of sorrows ana lare 




wells. 


A SONG OF THE ROSE. 


All the soul forth flo^vmg 




In that rich perfume, 


" Cori flor diverrai che non soggiace 


All the proud life glowing 


All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed alio Bchemo 
D* una etagion volubile e fugace ; 


In that radiant bloom — 


E a piu fido Cultor posto in govemo, 


Have they no place but here, beneath the o'er- 


Uuir potrai nella tranquilla pace, 


shadowing tomb ? 


Ad etema Bellezza odore etema"— Metastasio. 


RosK ! what dost thou here ? 


Crown'st thou but the daughters 


Bridal, royal rose ! 


Of our tearful race ? 


How, 'midst grief and fear. 


Heaven's own pures"!; waters 


Canst thou thus disclose 


Well might wear the trace 


niat fervid hue of love, which to thy heart leaf 


Of thy consummate form, melting to 8oft«w 


glows ? 


grace. 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



61 



Will that clime infold thee 

With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and deathless there ? 
In sp jit lustre clothed, transcendently more fair ! 

f OS ! my fancy sees thee 

In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 
From the mist of woes, 
Oaikening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal 
rose ! 



NIGHT-BLOWIXG FLOWERS. 

Children of night ! unfolding meekly, slowly, 
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, 
vVheu dark-blue heavens look softest and most 

holy, 
4.nd glowworm light is in the forest bowers ; 

To solemn things and deep, 

To spirit- haunted sleep, 

To thoughts, all purified 

From earth, ye seem allied ; 
O dedicated flowers ! 

Te, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, 
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, 
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 

— So doth love's dreaming heart 
Dwell from the throng apart. 
And but to shades disclose 

The inmost thought, which glows 
With its pure life intwined. 

Bhut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, 
To no triumphant song your petals thrill, 
But send forth odors with the faint, soft voices 
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. 

— So doth lone prayer arise. 
Mingling with secret sighs. 
When grief unfolds, like you, 
Her breast, for heavenly dew 

In silent hours to fill. 



THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT 
FLOWERS. 

*• Call back your odors, lovely flowers ! 
Fron: the night winds call them back ; 



And fold your leaves till the laughing hours 
Come forth in the sunbeam's track ! 

" The lark lies couched in her grassy nest. 

And the honey bee is gone, 
And all bright things are away to rest — 

Wliy watch ye here alone ? 

" Is not your world a mournful one, 
When your sisters close their eyes. 

And your soft breath meets not a lingering ton* 
Of song in the starry skies ? 

" Take ye no joy in the dayspring's birth 
When it kindles the sparks of dew ? 

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, 
Shall they gladden all but you ? 

" Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes oui 

On the sunny turf to play. 
And the woodland child with a fairy shout 

Goes dancing on its way ! " 

" Nay ! let our shadowy beauty bloom 

When the stars give quiet light, 
And let us offer our faint perfume 

On the silent shrine of night. 

" Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 
To the breeze, when no step is nigh : 

O, thus forever the earth should send 
Her grateful breath on high ! 

** And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers. 

Of hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring through the gloom of the darkeal 
hours. 

Looking alone to heaven ! " 



ECHO SONG. 

In thy cavern hall, 

Echo ! art thou sleeping ? 
By the fountain's fall 

Dreamy sUence keeping ? 
Yet one soft note, borne 
From the shepherd's horn. 
Wakes thee, Echo ! into music leaping ! 
— Strange, sweet Echo ! into music leaping- 

Then the woods rejoice, 

Then glad sounds are swelling 



012 



AnSCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



From each sister voice 

Round thy rocky dwelling ; 

And their sweetness fills 

All the hollow hills 
With a thousand notes, of 07ie life telling ! 
— Softly-roingied notes, of one life telling. 

Ecx,o ! in my heart 

Thus deep thoughts are lying, 
Silent and apart, 

Buried, yet undying ; 
Till some gentle tone 
Wakening haply one, 
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying ! 
-Strange, sweet Echo ! even like thee replying. 



THE MUFFLED DRUM. 

The muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
Which told the hamlets round 

Of a soldier's burial rite. 

But it told them not how dear. 

In a home beyond the main, 
Was the warrior youth laid low that hour 

By a mountain stream of Spain. 

The oaks of England waved 
O'er the slumbers of his race, 

But a pine of the Ronceval made moan 
Above his last, lone place ; 

When the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night. 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
Which called strange echoes round 

To the soldier's burial rite. 

Brief was the sorrowing there, 
By the stream from battle red. 

And tossing on its wave the plumes 
Of many a stately head ; 

But a mother — soon to die. 

And a sister — long to weep. 
Even then were breathing prayers for him 

In that home beyond the deep ; 

While the muffled drum was heard 
In the Pyrenees by night, 



With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
And the dark pines mourned around 
O'er the soldier's buria rite. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. 

" Adieu, adieu I thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hillside ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley glades." Exati 

" Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 
The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever Bingest" 

Shellit. 

'Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 
Unto the faint wind sighed melodiously. 
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 
Sent out through shadowy grass and thick wild 

flowers 
Dim alabaster gleams, a lonely swMi. 
Warbled his death chant ; and a poet stood 
Listening to that strange music, as it shook 
The lUies on the wave, and made the pines 
And all the laurels of the haunted shore 
Thrill to its passion. 0, the tones were sweet, 
Even painfully — as -with the sweetness wrung 
From parting love ; and to the poet's thought 
This was their language : — 

*' Summer ! I depart — 
O light and laughing summer ! faie thee well: 
No song the less through thy rich woods wiU 
swell 

For one, one broken heart. 

" And fare ye well, young flowers ! 
Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odor stiL» 
And wave in glory, coloring every rill 

Known to my youth's fresh hours. 

" And ye, bright founts ! that lie 
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, 
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep- 
Sweet waters ! I must die. 

♦* Will ye not send one tone 
Of sorrow through the pines ? — one murmui 

low? 
Shall not the green leaves from your voices knon 

That I, your child, am gone ? 

'♦ No ! ever glad and free 
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



61. 



Waves, joyous waves ! flow on, and fare ye well ! 
Ye will not mourn for me. 

*• But thou, sweet boon ! too late 
Poured on my parting breath, vain gift of song ! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and 
strong, 

In the dark hour of fate ? 

'• Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo voices from their sparry cell ; 
Only to say — O sunshine and blue skies ! 

O life and love ! farewell." 

hus flowed the death chant on ; while mourn- 
fully 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the 

tones 
liurifrd ill rocks along the Grecian stream — 
Rocks and dim caverns of old prophecy — 
Woke to respond : and all the air was filled 
""Vith that one sighing sound — Farewell! fare- 
well ! 

Filled with that sound ? High in the calm blue 

heaven 
Even then a skylark hung : soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with 

light. 
And 'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings 
Quivered with song : such free, triumphant 

song, 
As if tears were not — as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below ; and thus that strain 
Spoke to the poet's ear exultingly : — 

"The summer is come ; she hath said Rejoice ! 
The wildwoods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high : 
Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! 

•* There is joy in the mountains ! The bright 

waves leap 
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from 

sleep ; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along — 

Let the heavens ring with song ! 

"There is joy in the forests ! The bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight ; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given — 

Sing, sing through the echoing heaven ! 

* Min/» are the wings of the soaring morn, 
Mine are the fresH gales with dayspring bom : 



Only young rapture can mount so high — 

Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! " 

So these two voices met ; so Joy and Death 
Mingled their accents ; and, amidst the rush 
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried, — 
" O, thou art mighty, thou art wonderful. 
Mysterious Nature ! Not in thy free range 
Of woods and wilds alone thou blendest thua 
The dirge note and the song of festival ; 
But in one hearty one changeful human heart — 
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world — 
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones 
To startle and to pierce ! — the dying swan's, 
And the glad skylark's — triumph and despair ! ' 



THE CURFEW SONG OF ENGLAND. 

Hark ! from the dim church tower, 

The deep, slow curfew's chime ! 
— A heavy sound unto hall and bower 

In England's olden time ! 
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow, 
^\^lich had cheered the board with the mirth 
ful word. 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! 
Until that suUen, boding ki eU, 

Flung out from every fane. 
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell. 

With p. weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then 

In the wild deer's forest far ! 
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men. 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul, 

With lone aspirings filled. 
Would have Hved o'er some in^mortal scr ftlX 

While the sounds of earth were stilled ! 

And 3'et a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed, 
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low. 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doomed unseen to keep 

By the dying babe her place. 



»14 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


And to feel its sleeping pulse, and weep, 


Love ! forsflke me not ! 


Yet not behold its face ! 


Mine were a lone, dark lot, 




Bereft of thee ! 


Darkness in chieftain's haU ! 


They tell me that my soul can throw 


Darkness in peasant's cot ! 


A glory o'er the earth ; 


While Freedom, under that shadowy pall; 


From thee, from thee, is caught that goldftl 


Sat mourning o'er her lot. 


glow ! 


0, the fireside's peace we weUmay prize ! 


Shed by thy gentle eyes. 


rior blood hath flowed like rain, 


It gives to flower and skies 


Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries 


A bright, new birth ! 


Of England's homes ag^in. 






«' Thence gleams the path of morning 


Heap the yule faggots high 


Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 


Till the red light fills the room ! 


Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning 


It is home's own hour when the stormy sky 


With lustre not its own ! 


Grows thick with evening gloom. 


Thence every wood recess 


Gather ye round the holy hearth, 


Is filled with loveliness, 


And by its gladdening blaze, 


Each bower, to ringdoves and dim violets known. 


Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 




With a thought of the olden days ! 


*• I see all beauty by the ray 




That streameth from thy smile ; 




0, bear it, bear it not away ! 




Can that sweet light beguile ? 




Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, 


GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 


To linger long by earthly streams ; 


■ 


I clasp it with th' alloy 


" That voice remeasures 




Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 


Of fear 'midst quivering joy. 


The things of nature utter ; birds or trees, 


Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 


Or where the tall grass mid the heath plant waves. 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze."— Colekidqe. 


Leave me not. Love ! to mine own beating 




heart ! 


I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, 




A song of many tones — though one full soul 


*« The music from my lyre 


Breathed through them all imploringly, and 


With thy swift step would flee ; 


made 


The world's cold breath would quench the starry 


All nature as they passed, all quivering leaves 


fire 


And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill 


In my deep soid — a temple filled with thee 


As with the consciousness of human prayer. 


Sealed would the fountains lie, 


— At times the passion-kindled melody 


The waves of harmony. 


Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart 


Which thou alone canst free ! 


Over the wild sea wave ; at times the strain 




Rowed with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 


«• Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsuken, 


Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse j 


Whence the oracle hath fled ; 


A.nd sometimes, with its melancholy swell. 


Like a harp which none might waken 


A graver sound was mingled, a deep note - 


But a mighty master dead ; 


Of Tasso's holy lyre. Yet still the tones 


Like the vase of a perfume scattered, 


Were of a suppliant — ''Leave me not!" was 


Such would my spirit be — 


still 


So mute, so void, so shattered, 


fhfc burden of their music ; and I knew 


Bereft of thee ! 


The lay which Genius, in its loneliness. 




Its own still world, amidst th' o'erpeopled world. 


«• Leave me not. Love ! or if this earth 


4;ath ever breathed to Love. 


Yield not for thee a home. 




If the bright summer land of thy pure birth 


•♦ They crown me with the glistening crown, 


Send thee a silvery voice that whispers 'Comt 


Borne from a deathless tree ; 


Then, with the glory from the rose, 


f hear the pealing nrusic of renown — 


With the sparkle from the stream. 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 61* 


With the light thy rainbow presence throws 


Can all which crowds on earth's last hour 


Over the poet's dream ; 


No fuller language find ? 


With all th' Elysian hues 




Thy pathway that suffuse, 


Away ! and hush the feeble song, 


With joy, with music, from the fading grove. 


And let the chord be stilled ! 


Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet 


Far in another land, ere long, 


Love ! " 


My dream shall be fulfiUed. 


JTuSIC AT A DEATH BED. 






MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 


« Miisit r why thy power employ 




Only for the sons of joy ? 


[" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin — a plaii\ 


Only for the smiling guests 
At natal or at nuptial feasts ? 


quiet cenotaph, erected in tlie middle of a wide cornfield 


Rather thy lenient numbers pour 


on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glo- 


On those whom secret griefs devour ; 


rious career in arms. lie fell here, at eighty years of age. 


And with some softly-whispered air 


at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving 


Smooth the brow of dumb despair 1 " 


in his hand, flis seat was in the leathern saddle — his fool 


Warton, from Euripides. 


in the iron stirrup— his fingers reined the young war hors6 


Bkino music ! stir the brooding air 


to the last." — J\/'otes and Rejlections during a Ramble inU 
Germany.] 


With an ethereal breath ! 


Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear 


Thou didst fall in the field with thy sHver hair, 


Up from the couch of death ! 


And a banner in thy hand ; 




Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there. 


A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, 


By a proudly mournful band. 


Such as the southern breeze 




Might waft, at golden fall of day, 


In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast. 


O'er blue, transparent seas ! 


Thy long bright years had sped ; 




And a warrior's bier was thine at last. 


O, no ! not such ! That lingering spell 


When the snows had crowned thy head. 


Would lure me back to life, 




When my weaned heart hath said farewell, 


Many had fallen by thy side, old chie^' 


And passed the gates of strife. 


Brothers and friends, perchance ; 




But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, 


Let not a sigh of human love 


And light was in thy glance. 


Blend with the song its tone ! 




Let no disturbing echo move 


The soldier's heart at thy step leaped hi^, 


One that must die alone ! 


And thy voice the war horse knew ; 




And the first to arm when the foe was nisrh. 


But pour a solemn-breathing strain 


Wert thou, the bold and true. 


Filled with the soul of prayer ! 




Let a Kfe's conflict, fear, and pain. 


Now mayst thou slumber — thy work is done - 


And trembling hope be there. 


Thou of the well-worn sword ! 




From the stormy fight in thy fame thou*rt gcil« 


De<ep€T; yet deeper ! In my thought 


But not to the festal board. 


Lies cure prevailing sound. 




A harmony intensely fraught 


The corn sheaves whisper thy grave aromid 


With pleading more profound. 


Where fiery blood hath flowed . 




lover of battle and trumpet sound ! 


A passion unto music given, 


Thou art couched in a still abode ' 


A sweet, yet piercing cry ; 




A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven, 


A quiet home from the noonday's glarn, 


A bright faith's victory ! 


And the breath of the wintry blast — 




Didst thou toil through the days of thy bUtox) 


Deeper ! 0, may no richer power 


hair 


"Be in those notes enshrined ? 


To win thee but this at last ? 



•\s 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



THE FALLEN LIME TREE. 

O JOT of the peasant ! O stately lime ! 
Thou art fallen in thy golden honey time ' 
Thou -whose wavy shadows, 

Long and long ago, 
Screened our gray forefathers 
From the noontide's glow ; 
Thou, beneath whose branches. 

Touched with moonlight gleams, 
Lay our early poets 
Rapt in fairy dreams. 
O tree of our fathers ! O hallowed tree ! 
i glory is gone from our home with thee. 

"WTiere shall now the weary 

Rest through summer eves ? 
Or the bee find honey 

As on thy sweet leaves ? 
Where shall now the ringdove 

Build again her nest ? 
She so long the inmate 
Of thy fragrant breast ! 
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee 
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the 
bee ! 

These may yet find coverts 

Leafy and profound. 
Full of dewy dimness, 

Odor, and soft sound ; ' 

But the gentle memories 

Clinging all to thee. 
When shall they be gathered 

Round another tree ? 
pride of our fathers ! O hallowed tree ! 
Die crown of he hamlet is fallen in thee ! 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 

Bird of the greenwood ! 

O, why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee. 

Flowers bloom not near. 
All the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play — 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Where the mast quivers 
Thy place will not be. 

As 'r\idst the waving 
Of wild rose and tree. 



How shouldst thou battle 
With storm and with spray i 

Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land, 
Where by the south wind 

Vine leaves are fanned ? 
'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay : 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

•• Chide not my lingering 

Where storms are dark ; 
A hand that hath nursed me 

Is in the bark — 
A heart that hath cherished 

Through winter's long day ; 
So I turn from the greenwood, 

Away, away ! 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLO^VERS. 

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children o( 
earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no mon 
— whether they have no likeness, no archetype, in the world ii 
which my future home is to be cast— or whether they have theii 
images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightfu 
mould." — Conversations with an ainbitious Student in ill Health. 

Bear them not from grassy dells 
Whei*e wild bees haA'-e honey cells ; 
Not from where sweet water sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds ; 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are. 
And the glowworm's emerald stai, 
And the bird whose song is free, 
And the many- whispering tree : 
O, too deep a love, and vain, 
They would win to earth again. 

Spread them not before the eyes 

Closing fast on summer skies I 

Woo thou not the spirit back 

From its lone and viewless track, 

With the bright thinjis which have birCli 

Wide o'er all the colored earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies i 



1 

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 6I4 


From the lily's pearl cup shed, 


With thee, amidst exulting strains, 


Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 


Shadowed the victor's tent. 


Dreams of youth — of spring time's eves — 


Though, shining there in deathless green, 


Music — beauty — all she leaves ! 


Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 




Better thou lov'st the silent scene 


Hush ! 'tis thou that dreaming art, 


Around the victor's grave — 


Caliper is her gentle heart. 


Urn and sculpture half divine 


Y?^ o'er fountain, vale, and grove, 


Yield their place to thine. 


Leaf and flower, hath gushed her love ; 




But that passion, deep and true. 


The cold halls of the regal dead, 


Knows not of a last adieu. 


Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, 




Where hollow sounds the lightest tread — 


Types of lovelier forms than these 


Ivy ! they know thee well ! 


In their fragile mould she sees ; 


And far above the festal vine 


Shadows of yet richer things. 


Thou wav'st where once proud banners hung 


Bom beside immortal springs. 


Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine — 


Into fuller glory wTOUght, 


The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 


Kindled by surpassing thought ! 


Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, 




Ivy ! all are thine ! 


Tlierefore in the lily's leaf 




She can read no word of grief; 


High from the fields of air look 'own 


O'er the woodbine she can dw^ell, 


Those eyries of a vanished race, 


Murmuring not — Farewell ! farewell ! 


Where harp, and battle, and renowTX 


A.nd her dim, yet speaking eye 


Have passed, and left no trace. 


Greets the violet solemnly. 


But thou art there ! — serenely bright, 




Meeting the mountain storms with bloom* 


Therefore once, and yet again, 


Thou that w^ilt climb the loftiest height, 


Strew them o'er her bed of pain ; 


Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 


From her chamber take the gloom 


Ivy ! Ivy ! all are thine. 


With a light and flush of bloom : 


Palace, hearth, and shrine. 


So should one depart, who goes 




Where no death can touch the rose ! 


'Tis still the same : our pilgrim tread 




O'er classic plains, through deserts free. 




On the mute path of ages fled, 




Still meets decay and thee. 


THE IVY SONG.' 


And stil! let man his fabrics rear, 




August in beauty, stern in power — 


0, HOW could fancy crown with thee^ 


Days pass — thou Ivy never sere,' 


In ancient days, the God of Wine, 


And thou shalt have thy dowser. 


A.nd bid thee at the banquet be 


All are thine, or must be thine — 


Companion of the Vine ? 


Temple, pillar, shrine ! 


Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 




Of revelry hath long been o'er ; 




Whe»- *ong and beaker once went round, 




Bip. n^w are known no more ; 


THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S. 


Wlaere long -fallen gods recline, 




There the place is thine. 


[The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. Ii 




almost unrivalled in its coinl)ined powers of voice, organ, 


fhe Roma^., on his battle plains. 


and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus 


Where king; , efore his eagles bent. 


produced is not a little deepened by the charactei of tha 


church itself, which, though small, yet with its darK rich 




fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monu 




mental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by t)i« 


1 This song, as originaUy written, the reader will have 


spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never faiU 


met with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 419.) Be- 
ing afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs. Hemans, per- 






laps no apology is requisite for its reinsertion here. 
7» 


2 '* Ye myrtles brown, and ivy uever sere." — L«c«i« 



618 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



o recognize it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old 

— a place to witness tJie solitary vigil of arms, or to resound 
wi\h the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king ] 

" All the choir 
Sang hallelujah, as the sound of seas," — Miltom; 

A.GAIN, O, send that anthem peal again 
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky ! 
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, 
The banners thrill as if with victory ! 

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have 

heard, 
While armed for fields of chivalrous renown ; 
Such the high hearts of kings might well have 

stirred. 
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown ! 

Those notes once more ! — they bear my soul 

away, 
They lend the wings of morning to its flight ; 
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay 
Whispers one tone to win me from that height. 

All is of Heaven ! Yet wherefore to mine eye 
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source, 
Even while the waves of that strong harmony 
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course ? 

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token shower ! 

— O, is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limit in its proudest houri' 



KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH 
MOTHER OVER HER SON. 

[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of 
file Irish keenes, many of which are distinguished by a 
li^ild and deep pathos, and other cliaracteristics analogous to 
iiose of the national music] 

Dakkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
D&rker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 
Silent and dark ! 

There is blood upon the threshold 
"Whence thy step went forth at morn 

Like a dancer's in its fleetness, 
O my bright first born ! 

At the glad sound of that footstep 
My heart witliin me smiled ! — 

Thou wert brought me back all silent 
On thy bier, my child ! 



Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 
Silent and dark ! 

I thought to see thy children 
Laugh on me with thine eyes ; 

But my sorrow's voice is lonely 
Where my life's flower lies. 

I shall go to sit beside thee, 
Thy kindred's graves among ; 

I shall hear the tall grass whisper — 
I shall not hear it long. 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on \ 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired t(.i I 
Silent and dark ! 

And I, too, shaU find slumber 
With my lost one in the earth : 

Let none light up the ashes 
Again on our hearth ! 

Let the roof go down ! — let silence 

On the home forever fall. 
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not 

His lone mother's call ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on, 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 
Silent and dark ! 



FAR AWAY. 

Far away ! — my home is far away, 

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore ; 

In the woods I hear my brothers play, 

'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, 
Far away ! 

Far away ! — my dreams are far away, 

When at midnight stars and shadows reign . 

" Gentle child ! " my mother seems to say, 
" Follow me where home shall smile again« 



Far 



away 



Far away ! — my hope is far away, 

Where love's voice young gladness may re 
store. 
— O thou dove ! now soaring through the day 
Lend me wings to reach that better shore. 
Far away ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



611 



THE LYRE AND FLOWER. 

A Lyre its plaintive sweetness poured 

Forth on the wild wind's track ; 
The stormy wanderer jarred the chord, 
But gave no music back. — 
O child of song ! 
Bear hence to heaven thy fire : 
What hop'st thou from the reckless throng ? 
Be not like that lost lyre ! 
Not like that lyre ! 

A Flower its leaves and odors cast 

On a swift-rolling wave ; 
Th' unheeding torrent darkly passed, 
And back no treasvire gave. — 
O heart of love ! 
Waste not thy precious dower ; 
Turn to thine only home above ! 
Be not like that lost flower ! 
Not like that flower ! 



SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 

Sister ! since I met thee last 

O'er thy brow a change hath passed 

In the softness of thine eyes 

Deep and still a shadow lies ; 

From thy voice there thrills a tone 

Never to thy childhood known ; 

Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 

— Gentle sister ! thou hast loved ! 

Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 
Hues too bright from troubled thought ; 
Far along the wandering stream 
Thou art followed by a dream ; 
In the woods and valleys lone 
Music haunts thee, not thine own : 
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 
Sister ! tliou hast loved in vain ' 

Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 
On my bosom pour that shower ! 
TeK me not of kind thoughts wasted j 
Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
Wring not forth one burning word. 
Let thy heart no more be stirred ! 
Some alone can give thee rest. 

— Weep, sweet sister ! on my breast ! 



THE LONELY BIRD. 

From a ruin thou art singing, 

O lonely, lonely bird ! 
The soft blue air is ringing, 

By thy summer music stirred. 
But all is dark and cold beneath, 

Where harps no more arc heard : 
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath 

O lonely, lonely bird ? 

Thy songs flow richly swelling 

To a triumph of glad sounds. 
As from its cavern dwelling 

A stream in glory bounds ! 
Though the castle echoes catch no tone 

Of human step or word. 
Though the fires be quenched and the feast- 
ing done, 

O lonely, lonely bird ! 

How can that flood of gla^lness 

Rush through thy fiery lay, 
From the haunted place of sadnesa, 

From the bosom of decay — 
While the dirge notes in the breeze's moaK 

Through the ivy garlands heard, 
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone^ 

O lonely, lonely bird ? 

There's many a heart, wild singer I 

Like thy forsaken tower, 
Where joy no more may linger, 

Where Love hath left his bower : 
And there's many a spirit e'en like thee^ 

To mirth as lightly stirred. 
Though it soar from ruins in its glee, 

O lonely, lonely bird ! 



DIRGE AT SEA. 

Sleep ! — we give thee to the wnre, 
Red -with lifeblood from the brave. 
Thou shalt find a noble grave. 
Fare thee well ! 

Sleep ! thy billowy field is won J 
Proudly may the funeral gun, 
'Midst the hush at set of sun. 
Boom thy knell ! 

Lonely, lonely is thy bed ; 
Never there may flower be shed. 



120 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


Marble reared, or brother's head 


Two barks met on the deep mid sea 


Bowed to weep. 


When calms had stilled the tide ; 




A few bright days of summer glee 


Yet thy record on the sea, 


There found them side by side. 


Borne through battle high and free, 




Lon^ the red-cross flag shall be. 


And voices of the fair and brave 


'^leep ! 0, sleep ! 


Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 




And sweetly floated o'er the wave 




The melodies of earth. 


VJT.GRBl'S SONG TO THE EVENING 


Moonlight on that lone Indian main 


STAR. 


Cloudless and lovely slept ; 




While dancing step and festive strain 


O SOFT star of the west, 


Each deck in triumph swept. 1 


Gleaming far I 


1 


Thou'rt guiding all things home. 


And hands were linked, and answering ey«l 


Gentle star! 


With kindly-meaning shone ; 


Thou bring'st from rock and wave 


0, brief and passing sympathies. 


The sea bird to her nest. 


Like leaves together blown ! 


The hunter from the hills, 




The fisher back to rest. 


A little while such joy was cast 


Light of a thousand streams. 


Over the deep's repose. 


Gleaming far ! 


TiU the loud singing winds at last 


soft star of the west ! 


Like trumpet music rose. 


Blessed star ! 






And proudly, freely on their way 


No bowery roof is mine, 


The parting vessels bore ; 


No hearth of love and rest ; 


In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 


Yet guide me to my shrine, 


To meet — 0, nevermore ! 


soft star of the west ! 




There, there my home shall be, 


Never to blend in victory's cheer, 


Heaven's dew shall cool my breast, 


To aid in hours of woe : 


When prayer and tear gush free. 


And thus bright spirits mingle heie 


soft star of the west ! 


Such ties are formed below ! 


O soft star of the west. 




Gleaming far ! 




Thou'rt guiding all things home, 




Gentle star ! 


CO^IE AWAY. 


Shine from thy rosy heaven, 




Pour joy on earth and sea ! 


Come away ! — the child, where flowers Utt 


Shine on, though no sweet eyes 


springing 


Look forth to watch for me ! 


Round its footsteps on the mountain slope, 


Light of a thousand streams. 


Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, 


Gleaming far ! 


liike the skylark's vdth its tone of hope • 


O soft star of the west ! 


Come away I 


Blessed star ! 






Bounding on, with sunny lands before him 


w 


All the wealth of glowing life outspread 


i 


Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, 


THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 


By that strain the youth in joy is led : 




Come away ! 


* We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words 




cad looks of kindnoss, and we rejoice together for a few short 


Slowlv, sadly, heavy change is falling 


moments; and then dnys, months, years intervene, and we see 




uid know noUiing of each other."— Washington Irvixo. 


O'er the sweetness of the voice within ; 



i 

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. $1 


fet its tones, on restless manhood eaUing, 


Piercing the tumult of the seas 


Urge the hunter still to chase, to win : 


That wUdly dash arotind. 


Come away ! 






From land, from sunny land it comes 


Come away ! — the heart at last forsaken, 


From hills with murmuring trees. 


Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue ; 


From paths by still and happy homes — 


Yet a breath can still those words awaken, 


That sweet sound on the breeze. 


Though to other shores far hence they woo : 




Come away ! 


Why should its faint and passing sigh 




Thus bid my quick pulse leap ? 


In lae bght leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, 


No part in earth's glad melody 


Ln the low, sweet sounds of early spring. 


Is mine upon the deep. 


Still their music wanders — till the dying 




Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 


Yet blessing, blessing on the spot 


Come away ! 


Whence those rich breathings flow ! 




Kind hearts, although they know me not, 




Like mine there beat and glow. 


PAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL. 


And blessing, from the bark that roams 


[" Fair Helen of Kirkronnel,^ as she is called in the Scot- 
lish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lov- 
w and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a 


O'er solitary seas. 
To those that far in happy homes 
Give sweet sounds to the breeze 1 


ir.irtal wound, and died in the arms of the former.] 




Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 




Keep back my flitting breath ; 




'Tis early, early to depart. 
Beloved ! — yet this is death ! 


LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLiSJvN 
EYES. 


Look on me still — let that kind eye 


Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 


Be the last light I see ! 


Truth in their dark transparence lies ; 


0, sad it is in spring to die, 


Their sweetness gives me back the tears 


But yet I die for thee ! 


And the free trust of early years. 




My gentle child ! 


For thee, my own ! — thy stately head 




Was never thus to bow : 


The spirit of my infant prayer 


Give tears when with me love hath fled, 


Shines in the depths of quiet there , 


True love, thou know'st it now ! 


And home and love once more are mine, 




Found in that dewy calm divine. 


0, the free streams looked bright, where'er 


My gentle child ! 


We in our gladness roved ; 




And the blue skies were very fair. 


0, heaven is with thee in thy dreams. 


friend ! because we loved. 


Its light by day around thee gleams — 




Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies : 


Farewell ! — I bless thee — live thou on 


Look on me with thy cloudless eyes 


When this young heart is low ! 


My gentle child ! 


Surely my blood thy life hath won — 




Clasp me once more — I go ! 






IF THOU HAST CRUSHED ix FLOWEK 


MUSIC FROM SHORE. 


" 0, cast thou not 




Affection from thee I In this bitter world 


A. SveWD comes on the rising breeze, 
A sweet and lovely sound ! 


Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 
Watch — guard it— sufTer not a breath to dim 
The bright i?eni's puritv 1 " 



822 MISCETJANEOUS LYKiCS. 


If thou hast crushed a flower, 


So we give thee to the earth. 


The root may not be blighted ; 


And the primrose shall have birth 


If thou hast quenched a lamp, 


O'er thy gentle head ; 


Once more it may be lighted : 


Thou that, like a dewdrop borne 


But on thy harp, or on thy lute, 


On a sudden breeze of mom. 


The string which thou hast broken 


Brightly thus hast fled ! 


Shall never in sweet sound again 




Give to thy touch a token ! 




If thou hast loosed a bird 




"WTiose voice of song could cheer thee, 


THE BED OF HF.ATH. 


Still, stiU he may be won 




From the skies to warble near thee : 


" Soldier, awake ! the night is past; 


But if upon the troubled sea 


Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast ? 


Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 


Feel'st thou not the dayspring's breath ? 


Hope not that wind or wave will bring 


Rouse thee from thy bed of heath ! 


The treasure back when needed. 


Arm, thou bold and strong ! 




Soldier ! what deep spell hath bound the« 


If thou hast bruised a \'ine, 


Fiery steeds are neighing round thee — 


The summer's breath is healing, 


Banners to the fresh wind play : 


And its clusters yet may glow 


Rise, and arm — 'tis day, 'tis day ! 


Through the leaves, their bloom revealing : 


And thou hast slumbered long." 


But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 




With a bright draught filled — 0, never 


*' Brother ! on the heathery lea 


Shall earth give back that lavished wealth 


Longer yet my sleep must be ; 


To cool thy parched lip's fever ! 


Though the morn of battle rise. 




Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes — 


The heart is like that cup. 


Brother, this is death ! 


If thou waste the love that bore thee ; 


Call me not when bugles sound. 


And Hke that jewel gone, 


Call me not when wine flows round ; 


Which the deep will not restore thee ; 


Name me but amidst the brave, 


And like that string of harp or lute 


Give me but a soldier's grave — 


Whence the sweet sound is scattered — 


But my bed of heath ! " 


Gently, 0, gently touch the chords, 




So soon forever shattered ! 






FAIRY SONG. 




Have ye left the greenwood lone ? 


BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. 


Are your steps forever gone ? 




Fairy King and Elfin Queen, 


Brightly, brightly hast thou fled ! 


Come ye to the sylvan scene. 


Ere one grief had bowed thy head. 


From your dim and distant shore, 


Brightly didst thou part ! 


Nevermore ? 


With thy young thoughts pure from spot. 




With thy fond love wasted not. 


Shall the pilgrim never hear 


With thy bounding heart. 


With a thriU of joy and fear. 




In the hush of moonlight hours. 


Ni'er by sorrow to be wet. 


Voices from the folded flowers. 


Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, 


Faint, sweet flute nr cs as of yore, 


Ere with dust o'erspread : 


Nevermore ! 


Lilies ne'er by tempest blown. 




\Miite rose which no stain hath known. 


<• Mortal ! ne'er shall bowers of eartft 


Be about thee shed ! 


Hear again our midnight mirth : 



MISCELT.ANEOUS LYRICS. 6^ 


By our brooks and dingles green, 
Since unhallowed steps have been, 


LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE. 


Ours shall thread the forests hoar 


It is thy pity makes me weep. 


Nevermore. 


My soul was strong before ; 




Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep 


* Ne'er on earth-born lily's stem 


From vainly gushing o'er. 


Will we hang the dewdrop's gem ; 


Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes 1 


Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's head 


In this fond gaze my spirit dies : 


Quiver to our dancing tread, 


Look on me thus no more ! 


By sweet fount or murmuring shore — 




Nevermore ! " 


Too late that softness comes to bless 




My heart's glad life is o'er ; 




It will but break with tenderness. 




Which cannot now restore ! 


vVHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND. 


The lyrestrings have been jarred too long 




Winter hath touched the source of song ! 


What woke the buried sound that lay 


Look on me thus no more 1 


In Memnon's harp of yore ? 




What spirit on its viewless way 





Along the Nile's green shore ? 




0, not the night, and not the storm. 


O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS 


And not the lightning's fire ; 




But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm — 


O'er the far blue mountains, 


This, this awoke the lyre. 


O'er the white sea foam. 




Come, thou long-parted one ! 


What wins the heart's deep chords to pour 


Back to thine home. 


Thus music forth on life — 




Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er 


When the bright fire shineth, 


The truant sounds of strife? 


Sad looks thy place ; 


0, not the conflict 'midst the throng, 


While the true heart pineth. 


Not e'en the trumpet's hour ; 


Missing thy face. 


Love is the gifted and the strong. 




To wake that music's power ! 


Music is sorrowful 




Since thou art gone ; 




Sisters are mourning thee — 




Come to thine own ! 


SING TO ME, GONDOLIER ! 


Hark ! the home voices call 


Sing to me, gondolier ! 


Back to thy rest ; 


Sing Avords from Tasso's lay ; 


Come to thy father's hall. 


While blue, and still, and clear, 


Thy mother's breast ! 


Night seems but softer day. 




The gale is gently falling. 


. O'er the far blue mountains, 


As if it paused to hear 


O'er the white sea foam. 


Some strain the past recalling — 


Come, thou long-parted one ! 


Sing to me, gondolier ! 


Back to thine home. 


** 0, ask me not to wake 




The memory of the brave ; 




Bid no high numbers break 


THOU BREEZE OF SPRING! 


The silence of the wave. 




Gone are the noble hearted. 


THOU breeze of spring, 


Closed the bright pageants here ; 


Gladdening sea and shore ! 


And the glad song is departed 


Wake the woods to sing, 


From the mournful gondolier I " 


Wake my heart no more ! 



12* MISCFJJANEOUS LYRICS. 


Streams have felt the sighing 


Flowers have shut with fading light — 


Of thy scented wing ; 


Good night ! 


Let each fount replying 




Hail thee, breeze of spring ! 


Go to rest ! 


Once more ! 


Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast ! 




If within that secret cell 


O'er long-buried flowers 


One dark form of memory dwell. 


Passing not in vain, 


Be it mantled from thy sight — 


Odors in soft showers 


Good night ! 


Thou hast brought again. 




Let the primrose greet thee, 


Joy be thine ! 


Let the violet pour 


Kind lookii o'er thy slumbers shine ! 


Incense forth to meet thee — 


Go, and in the spirit land 


Wake my heart no more ! 


Meet thy home's long^parted band ; 


No more ! 


Be their eyes all love and light — 




Good night ! 


From a funeral urn 




Bowered in leafy gloom, 


Peace to all ! 


Even thy soft return 


Dreams of heaven on mourners fall ! 


Calls not song or bloom. 


Exile ! o'er thy couch may gleams 


Leave my spirit sleeping 


Pass from thine own mountain strearofl r 


Like that silent thing ; 


Bard ! away to worlds more bright — 


Stir the founts of weeping 


Good night ! 


Therey breeze of spring ! 




No more ! 






LET HER DEPART. 


Or'ME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN! 






Her home is far, 0, far away ! 


Come to me, dreams of heaven ! 


The clear light in her eyes 


My fainting spirit bear 


Hath nought to do with earthly day — 


On your bright wings, by morning given, 


'Tis kindled from the skies. 


Up to celestial air. 


Let her depart ! 


Away — far, far away, 




From bowers by tempests riven, 


She looks upon the things of earth, 


Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, 


Even as some gentle star 


blessed dreams of heaven ! 


Seems gazing down on grief or mirth. 




How softly, yet how far ! 


Come but for one brief hour. 


Let her depart ! 


Sweet dreams ! and yet again 




'^'er burning thought and memory shower 


Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love- 


Your soft effacing rain ! 


0, could they mount and fly ! 


Waft me where gales divine 


, She never sees a wandering dove. 


With dark clouds ne'er have striven, 


But for its wings to sigh. 


/There living founts forever shine — 


Let her depart ! 


bless6d dreams of heaven ! 






She never hears a soft wind bear 




Low music on its way. 


GOOD NIGHl. 


But deems it sent from heavenly air 




For her who cannot stay. 


Day is past ! 


Let her depart i 


Stars have set their watch at last ; 




Founts that through the deep woods flow 


Rapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 


Make sweet sounds, unheard till now ; 


She breathes and moves alone, 



MISCEIXANEOUS LYRICS. 



«2I 



Pining for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart ! 



BOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO 
LONE. 

How can that love so deep, so lone, 

So faithful unto death, 
Thus fitfully in laughing tone. 

In airy word, find breath ? 

Nay ! ask how on the dark wave's breast. 

The lily's cup may gleam, 
Though many a mournful secret rest 

Low in the unfathomed stream. 

That stream is like my hidden lovCf 

In its deep cavern's power ; 
And like the play of words above, 

That lily's trembling flower. 



WATER LILIES. 

A FAIRY SONG. 

Come away, elves ! — while the dew is sweet, 

Come to the dingles where fairies meet ! 

Know that the lilies have spread their bells 

O'er all the pools in our forest dells ; 

Stilly and lightly their vases rest 

On the quivering sleep of the water's breast, 

Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw 

To their scented bosoms an emerald glow ; 

And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, 

A golden star, unto heaven looks up, 

As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie. 

Set in the blue of the summer sky. 

Come away ! Under arching boughs we'U float, 

Making those urns each a fairy boat ; 

We'U row them with reeds o'er the fountains 

free. 
And a, tall flag leaf shall our streamer be ; 
And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low, 
It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to 

flow, 
As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh, 
Or waterdrops trained into melody. 
Come away ! for the midsummer sun grows 

strong, 
Ina the life of the lily may not be long. 
79 



THE BROKEN FLOWER. 

0, WEAR it on thy heart, my love ! 

Still, still a little while ! 
Sweetness is lingering in its loaves, 

Though faded be their smil 3. 
Yet, for the sake of what hath been, 

O, cast it not away ! , 

'Twas born to grace a summer 8cen€', 

A long, bright, golden da^, 
My love ! 

A long, bright, golden day ! 

A little while around thee, lova ! 

Its fragrance yet shall cling. 
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain 

A fair, though faded thing. 
But not even that warm heart h ithpCViref 

To win it back from fate : 
O, / am like thy broken flower. 

Cherished too late, too late. 
My love ! 

Cherished, alas ! too late ! 



I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAi^ 

I WOULD we had not met again ! 

I had a dream of thee. 
Lovely, though sad, on desert plafi — 

Mournful on midnight sea. 

What though it haunted me by night, 
And troubled through the day ? 

It touched all earth with spirit Ugh*, 
It glorified my way ! 

O, what shall now my faith restore 

In holy things and fair ? 
We met — I saw thy soul once mora - 

The world's breath had been ther» I 

Yes ! it was sad on desert plain. 

Mournful on midnight sea ; 
Yet would I buy with life again 

That one deep dream of thee ! 



FAIRIES' RECALL. 

While the blue is richest 
In the starry sky. 



1 

»i8 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


While the softest shadows 


Hush that haunting tone. 


On tne greensward lie, 


Melt me not to tears I 


While the moonlight slumbers 


All around forget. 


In the lily's urn, 


All who loved you well ; 


Bright elves of the wildwood ! 


Yet, sweet voices ! yet 


O, return, return ! 


O'er my soul ye swell. 


Round the forest fountain, 


With the winds of spring. 


On the river shore, 


With the breath of flowers, 


Let your silvery laughter 


Floating back, ye bring 


Echo yet once more ; 


Thoughts of vanished hours. 


While the joyous bounding 


Hence your music take. 


Of your dewy feet 


ye voices gone ! 


Rings to that old chorus — 


This lonely heart ye make 


♦' The daisy is so sweet ! " ' 


But more deeply lone. 


Oberon ! Titania ! 




Did your starlight mirth 




With the song of Avon 


BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT ItEST. 


Quit this workday earth ? 
Yet, while green leaves glisten, 

And while bright stars burn, 
By that magic memory, 

0, return, return ! 


By a' mountain stream at rest. 
We found the warrior Ij-ing, 

And around his noble breast 
A banner clasped in dying ; 
Dark and stiU 




Was every hill, 




And the winds of night were sighing. 


THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 


Last of his noble race. 


0, TELL me not the woods are fair 


To a lonely bed we bore him — 


Now Spring is on her way ! 


'Twas a green, stiU, solemn place. 


Well, well I know how brightly there 


Where the mountain heath waves o'er him ; 


In joy the young leaves play ; 


Woods alone 


How sweet on winds of morn or eve 


Seem to moan, 


The violet's breath may be ; 


Wild streams to deplore him. 


Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 
My lone rock by the sea. 


Yet, from festive hall and lay 
Our sad thoughts oft are flying 


The wild wave's thunder on the shore, 


To those dark hills far away. 


The curlew's restless cries, 


Where in death we found him lying ; 


Unto my watching heart are more 


On his breast 


Than all earth's melodies. 


A banner pressed. 


Come back, my ocean rover ! come ! 


And the night wind o'er him sighing. 


There's but one place fo'- me. 




Till I can greet thy swift sail home — 




My lone rock by the sea ! 






IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHXNQ ? 




Is there some spirit sighing 


O YE VOICES GONE! 


With sorrow in the air ? 
Can weary hearts be dj-ing, 


YE voices gone ! 


Vain love repining there f 


Sounds of other years ! 


If not, the^ how can that wild wail, 




sad ^olian lyre ! 


I Sm the fkities' chorus in Chaucer's " Flower and the 


Be drawn forth by the wandering gal^ 
From thy deep-thrilling wii* ^ 



1 

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 6a > 


No, no ! — tliou dost not borrow 


drained — not a drop is left; and then hursts forth the ai 


That sadness from the wind, 


multaneous chorus ' For JVnrgr ! ' the national song of Nor 




way. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred oUmT in 


Nor are those tones of sorrow 


stances in Norway, I liave seen tlie character of a company i 


In thee, harp ! enshrined ; 


entirely clianued liy the tliance introduction of tlie expre< 


But in our own hearts deeply set 


sion Omnlc J\''or.irc. The cravest discussion is instantly ir. 


Lies the true quivering lyre, 


terruptod • and one might suppose for the moment that th 


Whence love, and memory, and regret 


party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorMi 
some national anniversary of freedom." — Derwejct Cc 


Wake answers from thy mre. 


way's Personal JVarrative of a Journey through JVorvat a-if 




Sweden. 




Arise ! Old Norway sends the woid 


THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 


Of battle on the blast ; 




Her voice the forest pines hath stirred, 


Tn-E trumpet ot the battle 


As if a storm went past ; 


Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 


Her thousand hills the call have heard, 


And the first, deep gun of an ocean fight 


And forth their fire flags cast. 


Dread music all its own. 






Arm, arm, free hunters ! for the chase, 


But a mightier power, my England ! 


The kingly chase of foes ! 


Is in that name of thine. 


'Tis not the bear or wild wolfs race 


To strike the fire from every heart 


Whose trampling shakes the snows: 


Along the bannered line. 


Arm, arm ! 'tis on a nobler trace 




The northern spearman goes. 


Proudly it woke the spirits 




Of yore, the brave and true, 


Our hills have dark and strong defiles. 


When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 


With many an icy bed ; 


And the yeoman's arrow flew. 


Heap there the rocks for funeral piles 




Above the invader's head ! 


And proudly hath it floated 


Or let the seas, that guard our isles. 


Through the battles of the sea. 


Give burial to his dead ! 


When the red-cross flag o'er smoke wreaths 




played 




Like the lightning in its glee. 






COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP ! 


On rock, on wave, on bastion 




Its echoes have been known ; 


Come to me, gentle Sleep ! 


By a thousand streams the hearts lie low 


I pine, I pine for thee ; 


That have answered to its tone. 


Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep. 




And set my spirit free ! 


A thousand ancient mountains 


Each lonely, burning thought 


Its pealing note hath stirred : 


In twilight languor steep — 


Bound on, and on, forevermore. 


Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought, 


thou victorious word ! 


gentle, gentle Sleep ! 




Come ydth thine urn of dew. 




Sleep, gentle Sleep ! yet bring 


OLD NORWAY. 


No voice, love's yearning to renew. 




No vision on thy wing ! 


A MOUNTAIN WAR SONQ. 




Come, as to folding flowers, 


l" To a Norwegian, the words Oamli JVorgi (Old Nor- 


To birds in forests deep — 
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine houi^ 


Wiy) have a spell in them immediate and powei.*ui ; they 
tacnot be resisted. Oamli J^orgc is heard, in an instant, 


Np«ated l-y every voice ; the glasses ar'< filled, rais»d, and 


gentle, gentle Sleep ! 



iSS 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ., 

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE 

roa MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH THE SPIBH 

OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, BY 

FELICIA HEMANS. 

Preface. — I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavor which I have here made to enlaige, in some 
degree, the sphere of reliijioiis poetrj', by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the 
purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle. 

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic 
embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those 
active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like 
the upward-striving flame of a mountain watchfire, borne down by tempest showers, or swayed by the current of oppos- 
ing winds. 

I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the death bed, bearing ' healing on its 
wings " to the agony of parting love — strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for " perils in the wilderness " — gladden- 
ing the domestic walk through field and woodland — and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest 
rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty. 

Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller development 
of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature ; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense 
of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential application to things 
divine. — Felicia Hemanb. 1834 



THE ENGLISH MARTYRS; 

A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY. 

" Thy face 
Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy 1 
I am no more disconsolate."— Wilson. 

Scene I. — A Prison. 

Edith alone. 

Edith. Morn once again ! Morn in the lone, 

dim cell, 
rhe oavern of the prisoner's fever dream ; 
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills, 
ind the bright waters round the prisoner's 

home, 
far, far away ! Now wakes the early bird, 
riiat in the lime's transparent foliage sings, 
C/'lose to my cottage lattice — he awakes, 
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul, 
And to call forth rich answers of delight 
From voices buried in a thousand trees 
rhrough the dim, starjy hours. Now doth the 

.ake 
Darken and flash in rapid interchange 



Unto the matin breeze ; and the blue mist 
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows 
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise 
As if new born. Bright world ! and I am here 
And thou, O thou ! the awakening thought of 

whom 
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun, 
Herbert ! the very glance of whose clear eye 
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount 
Of living, bounding gladness ! — where art tho'.tl 
My friend ! my only and my bless6d love ! 
Herbert, my soul's companion ! 

Gomez, a lypanish Priest, enters. 
Gom. Daughter, hail ! 
I bring thee tidings. 

Ed. Heaven will aid my soul 
Calmly to meet what'er thy lips announce. 
Gom. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving Ui 
Heaven, 
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won I 
Hast thou not prayed for life ? and woulcJsl 

thou not 
Once more be free ? 

FJ. Have I not prayed for life > 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



62i 



I, that am so oeloved ! that love again 

With such a heart of tendrils ? Heaven ! tliou 

knoAvest 
The gushings of my prayer ! And woii.d I not 
Once more be free ? I that have been a 3hild 
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn 
[n ancient woodlands fi"»in mine infancy ;' 
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars, 
Beneath the adoring silence of the night ; 
A.nd a glad wanderer with the happy streams, 
Whose laughter fills the mountains ! O, to hear 
Their blessed sounds again ! 

Gom. Rejoice, rejoice ! 
Our queen hath pity, maiden ! on thy youth ; 
hlie wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come 
To Joose thy bonds. 

Ed. And shall I see his face, 
And shall I listen to his voice again. 
And lay my head upon his faithful breast, 
Weeping there in my gladness ? Will this be ? 
Blessings upon thee, father ! my quick heart 
Hath deemed thee stern — say, wilt thou not 

forgive 
The wayward child, too long in sunshine reared, 
Too long unused to chastening ? Wilt thou not ? 
But Herbert, Herbert ! O, my soul hath rushed 
On a swift gust of sudden joy away, 
Forgetting all beside ! Speak, father ! speak ! 
Herbert — is he, too, free ? 

Gom. His freedom lies 
In his own choice — a boon like thine. 

Ed. Thy words 
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart. 
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing 

me; 
Let all be told. 

Gom. The monarchs of the earth 
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim 
Unto some token of true vassalage. 
Some mark of homage. 

Ed. 0, unlike to Rim 
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth. 
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who 

serve 
And those who heed him not ! 

Gom. {laying a paper before her.') Is it so much 
That thine own hand should set the crowning 

seal 
To thy deliverance ? Look, thy task is here ! 
Sign but these words for liberty and life. 

Ed. {examining and th^en throwing it from her.) 
Bign but these words ! and wherefore a aidst 

thou not 
— " Be But a traitor to God's light within' ? 
Cruel, O, crue- ! thy dark sport hath been 



With a young bosom's hope ! Farewell, glad 

life! 
Bright opening path to love and home, fare* 

well ! 
And thou — now leave me with my God alone ! 
Gom. Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy ? 
Ed. Heavens ! doth Heaven 
Woo the free spirit for dishonored breath 
To sell its birthright ? — doth Heaven set a prici 
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith. 
And the bright calm of conscience ? Priest, 

away ! 
God hath been with me 'midst the holiness 
Of England's mountains. Not in sport alone 
I trod their heath flowers ; but high thoughts 

rose up 
From the broad shadow of the enduring 

rocks. 
And wandered with me into solemn glens, 
Where my soul felt the beauty of his word 
I have heard voices of immortal truth. 
Blent with the everlasting torrent sounds 
That make the deep hills tremble. — Shall i 

quail ? 
Shall England's daughter sink ? No ! He m h« 

there 
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm 
Will not forsake his child ! 

Go7n. {turning from her.) Then perish ! lost 
In thine own blindness ! 

Ed. {suddenly throwing herself at his feet.) 
Father ! hear me yet ! 
O, if the kindly touch of human love 

Hath ever warmed thy breast 

Gom. Away — away! 
I know not love. 

Ed. Yet hear ! if thou hast known 
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice — 
If the true vigil of aff'oction's eye 
Hath watched thy childhood — if fond teari 

have e'er 
Been showered upon thy head — if parting 

words 
E'er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness — 
Let me but look upon his face once more, 
Let me but say — Farewell, my soul's beloved 
And I will bless thee still ! 

Gom. {aside.) Her soul may yield, 
Beholding him in fetters ; woman's faith 
Will bend to woman's love. 

Thy prayer is hcaro 
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell. 
Ed. O stormy hour of agony and joy ! 
But I shall see him — I shall hear his voice ! 

[ They go out 



i?«> 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LITIS, 



Scene II. — An Jther Part of the Prison. 
Herbert, Edith. 

Ed. Herbert ! my Herbert ! is it thus we 

meet ? 
Her. The voice of my own Edith ! Can such 

joy 

Light up this place of death r And do I feel 
Thy breatii of love once more upon my cheek, 
Ind the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, 
My blessed Edith ? O, so pale ! so changed ! 
My flower, my blighted flower ? thou that wert 

made 
For the kind fostering of sweet, summer au-s. 
How hath the storm been with thee ? Lay thy 

head 
On this true breast again, my gentle one ! 
And tell me all. 

Ed. Yes, take me to thy heart, 
For I am weary, weary ! O, that heart ! 
The kind, the brave, the tender ! — how my soul 
Hath sickened in vain yearnings for the balm 
Of rest on that warm heart ! — full, deep repose ! 
One draught of dewy stillness after storm ! 
And God hath pitied me, and I am here — 
Yet once before I die. 

Her. They cannot slay 
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou, 
My broken lily ! Surely the long days 
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee ! 

0, thou shalt hve, and raise thy gracious head 
Yet in calm sunshine. 

Ed. Herbert ! I have cast 
The snare of proferred mercy from my soul. 
This very hour. God to the weak hath given 
Victory o'er life and death. The tempter's price 
Hath been rejected — Herbert, I must die. 

Her. O Edith ! Edith ! I, that led thee first 
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod — 

1, that received it as an angel's task, 

To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul, 
Which drank it as a sunflower — / have been 
Thy guide to death. 

Ed. To heaven ! my guide to heaven, 
My noble and my blessed ! O, look up. 
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert ! But for thee, 
llow could my spirit have sprung up to God 
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision 

hung. 
The night of fear and error ? — thy dear hand 
First raised that veil, and showed the glorious 

world 
My heritage beyond. Friend ! love, and friend ! 
\* was as if thou gavcst me mine own soul 



Li those bright days : Yes ! a new earth an4 

heaven, 
And a new sense for all their splendors bom — 
These were thy gifts ; and shall I not rejoice 
To die, upholding their immortal worth, 
Even for thy sake r Yes ! filled with xu^, ht 

life 
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth» 
Lay me upon the altar of thy God, 
The first fruits of thy ministry below — 
Thy work, thine own ! 

Her. My love, my sainted love ! 
O, I can almost yield thee unto Heaven ; 
Earth would but sully thee ! Thou must depart, 
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts 
Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas ! 
Edith ! what dreams of holy happiness, 
Even for this world, were ours ! — the low sweet 

home, 
The pastoral dwelling, with its i-s-ied porch. 
And lattice gleaming through the leaves — and 

thou 
My life's companion ! Thou, beside my hearth, 
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me 
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, 
In the green meadow path, or by my side 
Kneeling — thy calm uplifted face to mine, 
In the sweet hush of prayer ! And now — O, 

now ! — 
How have we loved — how fervently ! how long ! 
And this to be the close ! 

Ed. O, bear me up 
Against the unutterable tenderness 
Of earthly love, my God ! — in the sick hour 
Of dying human hope, forsake me not ! 
Herbert, my Herbert ! even from that sweet 

home 
Where it had been too much of paradise 
To dwell with thee — even thence the oppressor's 

hand 
Might soon have torn us ; or the touch of death 
Might one day there have left a widowed heatt, 
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved ! 
To the bright country where the wicked cease 
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway , 
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs 
The Sabbath peace of love. We will go henc^ 
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven : 
No solitary lingering, no cold void, 
No d}-ing of the heart ! Our lives have been 
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deathi 
We will not be divided. 

Her. O, the peace 
Of God is lying far within thine eyes, 
Far underneatli the mist of humai. t.»«M"8 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



6b. 



( ighting those blue, still depths, and sinking 

thence 
{•n my worn heait. Now am I girt with 

strength, 
>row I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven ! 
Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert ! — in this 

hour 
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might ! 
O, thou hast loved mc nobly ! thou didst take 
A.n orphan to thy heart — a thing unprized 
Ax.d desolate ; and thou didst guard her there, 
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl 
Of richest price ; and th«>u didst fill her soul 
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. 
I bless, I bless thee ! Never did thine eye 
Look on me but in glistening tenderness, 
My gentle Herbert ! Never did thy voice 
But in affection's deepest music speak 
To thy poor Edith ! Never was thy heart 
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, 
My faithful, generous Herbert ! "Woman's peace 
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true 
Reposed before. Alas ! thy showering tears 
Fall fast upon my cheek — forgive, forgive ! 
I should not melt thy noble strength away 
In such an hour. 

Her. Sweet Edith, no ! my heart 
Will fail no more. God bears me up through 

thee, 
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light 
Shining around thee, through thy very tears, 
Will yet sustain me ! Let us call on Him ! 
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft, 
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, 
Th' all-pitying One, to aid. 

{They kneel. 
O, look on us. 
Father above ! — in tender mercy look 
On us, thy children ! — through th' o'ershadow- 

ing cloud 
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid — 
Save, or we perish ! We would pour our lives 
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth ; 
But we are weak — we, the bruised reeds of 

earth, 
Are swayed by every gust. Forgive, God ! 
Tr e bhndness of our passionate desires, 
Hic fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts 
Which cleave to dust ! Forgive the strife ; 

accept 
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears. 
From mortal pangs wrung forth ! And if our 

souls, 
m all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, 
"M their long-clasping love, have wandered not, 



Holiest ! from thee — O, take them to thy. 

self. 
After the fiery trial — take them home 
To dwell, in that imperishable bond 
Before thee linked, forever. Hear ! — throngl 

Him 
Who meekly drank the cup of agony. 
Who passed through death to victory, hear aai 

save ! 
Pity us. Father ! we are girt with snares : 
Father in heaven ! we have no help but thee. 

\_Theyrut 
Is thy soul strengthened, my beloved one ? 
O Edith ! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, 
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn 
We loved in happier days — the strain which 

tells 
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade ? 

Edith sings. 
He knelt, the Savior knelt and prayed, 

When but his Father's eye 
Looked through the lonely garden's shade 

On that dread agony ; 
The Lord of all above, beneath, 
Was bowed with sorrovv unto death 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 

The stars might well grow dim, 
When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Him ! 
That He who gave man's breath, might know 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All gathered round his head ; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 
Yet passed it not, that cup, away ! 

It passed not — though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath his tread ; 
It passed not — though to him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent him from on high 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the Sinless thus beset 

With anguish and dismay ? 
How may we meet our conflict yet. 

In the dark, narrow way ? 
Tlirough Him — through Him that path win 

trod. 
— Save, or we perish. Son of God I 



^5 



SCENES AND HYmNS OF LIFE. 



Hai'k, hark ! the parting signal. 

[Pi-ison attendants enter. 
Fare thee well ! 
thou unutterably loved, farewell ! 
Let our hearts bow to God ! 
Her. One last embrace — 
On earth the last ! We have eteriiity 
For love's communion yet ! Farewell ! — fare- 
well ! [She is led out. 
Tis o'er ! the bitterness of death is past ! 



FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM 
OF SICKNESS. 

" Once -when 1 looked along the laughing earth, 
Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, 
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song, 
I wept ! and thought how sad for one so young 
To bid farewell to so much happiness. 
But Christ hath called me from this lower world, 
Delightful thought it be."— Wilson. 

Apartment i7i an English country house. — Lilian 
reclining f as sleeping on a couch. Her mother 
watching beside her. Her sister enters with 
flowers. 

Mother. Hush ! lightly tread ! StiU tranquilly 

she sleeps, 
As when a babe I rocked her on my heart. 
I've watched, suspending e'en my breath, in fear 
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently ! 
And O, those flowers ! Dear Jessy ! bear them 

hence — 
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears 
That shook her trembling frame, when last we 

brought 
The roses to her couch ? Dost thou not know 
What sudden longings for the woods and hills, 
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, 
These leaves and odors Avith strange influence 

wake 
In her fast-kindled soul ? 

Jessy. O, she would pine. 
Were the wild scents and glowing hues with- 

he.d, 
Mother ! far more than now her spirit yearns 
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks. 
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome 

spring 
Their blooms recall. 

Lilian, {raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's 

voice .'' 
It woke me not, sweet mother I I had lain 
Biler.tly, visited by waking d» aams, 
Vet conscious of thy brotdiug watchfulness, 



Long ere I heard the soxind. Hath she brougb 

flowers ? 
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waj'ward 

ness, 
My thoughtful mother ! — in her chastened sou3 
The passion- colored images of life, 
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awok< 
So oft those burning tears, have died away ; 
And night is there — still, solemn, holy night ! 
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune 
Of many fountains, low and musical, 
By day unheard. 

Mother. And wherefore 7iight, my child .'' 
Thou art a creature aU of life and dawn, 
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, 
And walk forth with the dayspring. 

Lilian. Hope it not ! 
Dream it no more, my mother ! — there are things 
Kno-wTi but to God, and to the parting soul, 
Which feels his thrilling summons. 

But my words 
Too much o'ershadow those kind, loving eyes. 
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy ! Ah ! thy 

step. 
Well do I see, hath not alone explored 
The garden bowers, but freely visited 
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow 

sweet 
Is from the cool, green, shadoTvy river nook. 
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossj 

stones 
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that 

spot 
Lovely as when our glad eyes hailed it first ? 
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep 
The clear brown wave with ever)' passing -wind t 
And through the shallower waters, where they 

He 
Dimpling in light, do the veined pebbles gleam 
Like bedded gems ? And the white butterflies, 
From shade to sunstreak are they gtancing still 
Among the poplar boughs ? 

Jessy. All, all is there 
Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can 

brings ; 
All, save the soul of ali, thy lightning smile ! 
Therefore I stood in skdntss* 'midst the leaves, 
And caught an under -\nusic of lament 
In the stream's voice. But Nature waits the* 

still. 
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne 
Of richest moss. 

Lilian. Alas ! it may not bo ! 
My soul hath sent her farewell pDiceless.y 
To all these bless6d haunts of song and thought 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



tu 



Xet not the less I love to look on these, 

llieLf dear memorials — strew them o'er my 

couch 
TiU it grow htce a forest bank m spi-ing, 
AH flushed wuh violets and anemones. 
Ah ! the pale lri*^r rose ! touched so tenderly, 
A' a pure ocean shell, with faintest red, 
Mt..ting away to pearlincss ! I know 
How Its long, light festoons o'crarching hung 
From t^e gray rock that rises altar-like, 
Witn its high, waving crown of mountain ash, 
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough 
Of honeyed woodbine tells me of the oak, 
Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, 
Sheddnig a verdurous twilight o'er the face 
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now ; 
I look up through the stirring of its leaves 
TJi to the intense blue, crystal firmament. 
The ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head, 
Casting at times a silvery shadow down 
'Midst the large water lilies. Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this fair, free world 
Under God's open sky ! 

Mother. Thou art o'erwrought 
Once more, my child ! The dewy, trembling light 
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. 
0, hush, dear Lilian ! turn thee to repose. 

Lilian. Mother ! I cannot. In my soul the 
thoughts 
Burn vdih too subtle and too swift a fire ; 
Importunately to my lips they throng. 
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend 
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone — 
(For I must go) — then the remembered words, 
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth. 
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets 
Held there, with life and love. And weep not 

thus. 
Mother ! dear sister ! — kindest, gentlest ones ! 
Be comforted that now / weep no more 
For the glad earth and all the golden light 
Whence I depart. 

No ! God hath purified my spirit's eye, 
And in the folds of this consummate rose 
I read bright prophecies. I see not there. 
Dimly and mournfully, the word '•'■farewell" 
On the rich petals traced. No — in soft veins 
And characters of beauty, I can read — 
** Look up, look heave^noard ! " 

Blessed God of Love ! 
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links 
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn ! 
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth 
Higher than earth can raise me ! Are not these 
But germs ^^i things unperishing, that bloom 
80 



Beside th' immortal streamn ? Shall I not find 
The lily of the field, the Savior's flower, 
In the serene and never-moaning air, 
And the clear starry light of angel eyes, 
A thousand fold more glorious ? Richer far 
W^ill not the violet's dusky purple glow, 
When it hath ne'er been pressed to broken hearta 
A record of lost love ? 

Mother. My Lilian ! thou 
Surely in thy bright life hast little known 
Of lost things or of changed ! 

Lilian. O, little yet. 
For thoii, hast been my shield ! But had it been 
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown, 
Without thy love, O mother ! there are heaits 
So perilously fashioned, that for them 
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough 
To waken, and not break, their thrilling 

strings ! — 
We will not speak of this ! 

By what strange spell 
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, 
I dream of music ? Something in their hues, 
All melting into colored harmonies, 
AVafts a swift thought of interwoven chords. 
Of blended singing tones, that swell and die 
In tenderest falls away. O, bring thy harp, 
Sister ! A gentle heaviness at last 
Hath touched mine eyelids : sing to me, and sleep 
Will come again. 

Jessxj. What wouldst thou hear ? — the Italiar 

peasant's lay. 
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring 
With "i?oma/ Roma!" or the madrigal 
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily ? 
Or the old ditty left by troubadours 
To girls of Languedoc ? 
Lilian. O, no ! not these. 
Jessy. What then ? — the Moorish melody still 

known 
Within the Alhambra city ? or those notes 
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart 

even unto death ? 
Lilian. No, sister ! nor yet these — 
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret. 
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes 
In the caressing sweetness of their tones. 
For one who dies. They would but woo ni« 

back 
To glowing life with those i^.rcadian sounds — 
And vainly, vamly. No ! a loftier strain, 
A deeper music ! — something that may bear 
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings. 
Unswayed by gusts of earth ; something all flUeO 
W^ith solemn adoration, tearful prayer. 



634 SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 


Sing me that antique strain which once I deemed 


0, therefore unto thee. 


Almost too sternly simple, too austere 


Thou that hast known ail woes 


In its grave majesty ! I love it now — 


Bound in the girdle of mortality ! 


N^ow it seems fraught with holiesyt power to 


Thou that wilt lift the reed 


hush 


Which storms have . ruiscd. 


A.U billows of the soul, e'en like His voice 


To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry. 


That said of old — " Be still ! " Sing me that 


And, in that tempest hour, when love and life 


strain, 


Mysteriously must part, 


"The Savior's dying hour." 


When tearful eyes 




Are passionately bent 


Jessy shigs to the Harp. 


To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gastt 


Son of man ! 


Then, then forsake us not ! 


In thy last mortal hour 


Shed on our spirits then 


Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully ! 


The faith and deep submissiveness of thine ! 


All that on us is laid, 


Thou that didst love 


All the deep gloom. 


Thou that didst weep and die — 


The desolation and the abandonment, 


Thou that didst rise a victor glorified ; 


The dark amaze of death — 


Conqueror ! thou Son of God ! 


All upon thee too fell, 




Redeemer ! Son of man ! 




But the keen pang 
'SMierewdth the silver cord 


CATHEDRAL HYMN. 


Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung ; 


" They dreamt not of a perishable home 


riie uptearing of those tendrils which have 
grown 
Into the quick, strong heart ; 


Who thus could build. Be miue, in hours of fe« 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." 

WoKDSWOBltl 


This, this — the passion and the agony 


A DIM and mighty minster of old time ! 


Of battling love and death, 


A temple shadowy with remembrances 


Surely was not for thee, 


Of the majestic past ! The very light 


Holy One ! Son of God ! 


Streams with a coloring of heroic days 




In every ray, which leads through arch and aiB^v 


Yes, my Redeemer ! 


A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 


E'en this cup was thine ! 


To other years ! — and the rich-fretted roof. 


Fond, wailing voices called thy spirit back ; 


And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 


E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts 


Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 


Of that last crowning hour — 


The tenderest image of mortality — 


E'en on thine awful way to victory. 


Binding the slender columns, whose light shaltd 


Wildly they called thee back ! 


Cluster like stems in corn sheaves ; — aU these 


And weeping eyes of love 


things 


Unto thy heart's deep 2ore 


Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly 


Eierced through the folds of death's mysterious 


On their heart's worship poured a wealth ctf lore I 


veil. 


Honor be with the dead ! The peop .e kneel 


Suffer ! thou Son of man ! 


Under the helms of antique chivalry. 




And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, 


Mother tears were mingled 


And 'midst the forms, in pale, proud slumbei 


With thy costly blooddrops, 


carved, 


In the shadow of the atoning cross ; 


Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel 


And the friend, the faithful, 


Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt ; where jew- 


He that on tliy bosom 


elled crowns 


Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain — 


On the flushed brows of conquerors have beeii 


He, a pale sad watcher, 


set ; 


Met \Hth looks of anguish 


Where the high anthems of old victories 


411 the anguish in thij last meek glance — 


Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vail 


Dying Son of man ! 


thoughts ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



63< 



j Memories of power and pride, which long ago, 
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 
[n twilight depths away. Return, my soul ! 
The Cross recalls thee. Lo ! the blessed Cross ! 
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 
Fixed in its meek and still supremacy ! 
And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 
AU their full treasures of immortal hope, 
Gath xed before their God ! Hark ! how the 

flood 
Of the rich organ harmony bears up 
Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ! 
A forest -sounding music ! Everj^ tone 
Which the blasts call forth with their harping 

wings 
From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent : 
And the old minster — forest-like itself — 
With its long avenues of pillared shade, 
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 
One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy 
Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my 

soul ! 
[n thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

"Rise like an altar fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire. 
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain ! 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from humankind 
rhanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Cf harp or song to reach thine awful ear, 

Unless the heart be there, 

Winging the words of prayer 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 

Let, then, thy Spirit brood 

Over the multitude — 
Be thou amidst them, through that heavenly 
Guest ! 

So shall their cry have power 

To win from thee a shower 
Df healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign, 

That ask no aid but thine, 
Father of mercies ! here before thee swell ! 

As to the open sky, 

All their dark waters He 
''o thee revealed, in 6ach close bosom cell. 



The sorrow for the dead, 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, Ml 
free; 

And the fond, aching love, 

Thy minister to move 
All the wrung spiiit, softening it for thee. 

And doth not thy dread eye 

Behold the agony 
In that most hidden chamber of the heart, 

"Where darkly sits remorse. 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions^ keeping watch apart ? 

Yes ! here before thy throne 

Many — yet each alone — 
To thee that terrible unveiling make : 

And still, small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear. 
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 

How dreadful is this place ! 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. 

Where shall the guilty flee ? 

Over whfft far-off" sea ? 
AMiat hills, what woods, may shroud him firon 
that light ? 

Not to the cedar shade 

Let his vain flight be made ; 
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What but the Cross can yield 

The hope — the stay — the shield ? 
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to thee ! 

Be thou, be thou his aid ! 

O, let thy love pervade 
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought ' 

There let the living stone 

Be cleft — the seed be sown — 
The song of fountains from the silence brought 

So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image — Holiest and Most Hi^ f 

As a clear lake is filled 

With hues of heaven, instilled 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng 
linked by the ascending song. 
There are Avhose thoughts in trembling lapturt 
soar. 



S3 6 



SCE.SlilS AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Thanks, Father ! that the power 
Of joy, man's early dower. 
Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore ! 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine, 
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits the harvest time, is there. 



WOOD WALK AND HYMN. 

" Move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods." 

Wordsworth. 

Father — Child. 

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery 
leaves 
Trembling, forever trembling ; though the lime 
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching 

^ sprays 
Cf eglantine, hang still, as if the wood 
Were all one picture ! 

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, 
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree ? 

Child. No, father: doth he say the fairies 
dance 
Amidst the branches ? 

Father. O, a cause more deep, 
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign 
To the strange restlessness of those wan leav^es ! 
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon 
The meek Redeemer bowed his head to death, 
Was framed of aspen wood ; and since that hour. 
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down 
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, 
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze 
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes 
The light lines of the shining gossamer. 

Child, {after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, 
father ? 

Father. Nay, my child. 
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, 
With something of a lingering love, I read 
The characters, by that mysterious hour, 
Stamped on the reverential soul of man 
In visionary days, and thence thrown back 
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign 
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven. 
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace 
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so ! 
Vhey do lot wisely that, with hurried hand. 



Would pluck these salutary fancies fo^th 
From their strong soil within thr pcasanfi 

breast, 
And scatter them — far, far too fast • away 
As worthless weeds. O, little do we know 
Whe7i they have soothed, when saved ! 

But come, dear boy ! 
My words grow tinged with thought too deep 

for thee. 
Come — let us search for violets. 

Child. Know you not 
More of the legends which the woodman tell 
Amidst the trees and flowers ? 

Father. Wilt thou know more ? 
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-bro-wn 

stains, 
There — by the mossy roots of yon old beech, 
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips — seest thoTS 

not? 
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree 
Just bending o'er it with a mid bee's weight. 
Cluld. The arum leaf? 

Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks, 
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice 
Lowered in his true heart's reverent earnestness," 
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood 
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew; 
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf. 
Catching from that dread shower of agony 
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus 
Unto the groves and hills their sealing stains, 
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind 
Never to waft away ! 

And hast thou seen 
The passion flower ? It grows not in the woods, 
But 'midst the bright things brought from othei 

climes. 
Child. What ! the pale star-shaped flower. 

with purple streaks. 
And light green tendrils ? 

Father. Thou hast marked it well. 
Yes ! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower. 
As from a land of spirits ! To mine eye 
Those faint, Avan petals — colorless, and yet 
Not white, but shadowy — with the mystic linei 
(As letters of some wizard language gone) 
Into their vapor-like transparence wrought, 
Bear something of a strange solemnity, 
Awfully lovely ! — and the Christian's thought 
Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find 
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangt 
Set by God's hand — the coronal of thorns — 
The cross, the wounds — with other meaningi 

deep. 
Which I will teach thee when we meet again 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



6S7 



rhrft flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath, 
rhe Sa-Vior's holy flower. 

Bx.t let us pause : 
Now Lave we reached the very inmost heart 
Of the old wood. How the green shadows 

close 
Into a rich, clear, summer da;kncss round, 
A luxury of gloom ! Scarce doth one ray, 
Ev 5n when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal 
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades ; 
Or if it doih, 'tis with a mellowed hue 
Of glowworm-colored light. 

Here, in the days 
Of pagan virions, would have been a place 
For worship of the wood nymphs ! Through 

these oaks 
A small, fair-gleaming temple might have thrown 
The quivering imsge of its Dorian shafts 
On the stream's bosom, or a sculptured form. 
Dryad, or fountain goddess of the gloom. 
Have bowed its head o'-^r that dsrk crystal down, 
"Drooping with beauty, ^s a lily droops 
Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here 
With God, our God, a Spiiit, who requires 
Heart worship, given in spirit and in truth ; 
And this high knowledge — deep, ricit, vast 

enough 
To fill and hallow all the solitude - 
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move, 
Without the aid of shrines. 

What ! dost thou feel 
The solemn-whispering influence of the scene 
Oppressing thy j'oung heart, that thou dost draw 
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand 
Faster in thine ? Nay, fear not, gentle child ! 
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades 
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me 

here. 
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope 
With dark exuberance ; and beneath these 

plumes 
Of wavy fern, look where the cup moss holds 
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright. 
The starry dews of morning. Rest a while, 
And let me hear once more the woodland verse 
I taught thee late — 'twas made for such a scene. 
Child speaks. 

WOOD HYMN. 

Broods there some spirit here ? 
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud ; 
And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear, 
Che wildwood hyacinth with awe seems bowed ; 
Vnd something of a tender cloistral gloom 

Deepens the violet's bloom. 



The very light that streams 
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round 
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams — 
As if it knew the place were holy ground, 
And would not startle, with too bright a buret, 

Flowers all divinely nursed. 

Wakes there some spirit here ? 
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rush- 

ing by ; 
And leaves and Avaters, in its wild career, 
Shed forth sw eet voices — each a mystery ! 
Surely some awful influence must pervade 

These depths of trembling shade 1 

Yes ! lightly, softly move ' 
There is a power, a presence in the woods ; 
A viewless being that, with life and love, 
Informs the reverential solitudes : 
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod- 

Thou — thou art here, my God ! 

And if with awe we tread 
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane, 
And, 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead. 
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem less thy 

fane, 
Where thou alone hast built? — where arch an} 
roof 
Are of thy living woof ? 

The silence and the sound, 
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee ; 
The temple twiHght of the gloom profound, 
The dewcup of the frail anemone, 
The reed by every wandering whisper thrilled - 

All, all with thee are filled ! 

O, purify mine eyes. 
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, 
Thy presence, holiest One ! to recognize 
In these majestic aisles which thou hast -wrought, 
And, 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mic* 
ear 

Ever thy voice to hear ! 

And sanctify my heart 
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone 
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, 
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own 
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers 

Ere sin had dimmed the flowers. 

Let me not know the change 
O'er nature thrown by guilt ! — the boding <^V^ 



6ZS 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



The hollow leaf sounds ominous and strange, 
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie ! 
Father ! O, keep my footsteps pure and free, 
To walk the woods with thee ! 



PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT. 

• Soul of our souls I and safeguard of the -vrorld ! 
Sustain — Tiiou only canst — the sick at heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine." — Wokdsvvorth. 

Night — holy night — the time 
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime ! 
Night ! — when in happier hour the unveiling sky 

Woke all my kindled soul 
To meet its revelations, clear and high. 
With the strong joy of immortality ! 
Now hath strange sadness wrapped me, strange 

and deep — 
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them 

roll, 
E'en when I deemed them seraph-plumed, to 
sweep 
Far beyond earth's control. 

Wherefore is this ? I see the stars returning. 
Fire after fire in heaven's rich temple burning : 
Fast a^ine they forth — my spirit friends, my 

guides. 
Bright rulers of n-^y being's inmost tides ; 
They shine — but faintly, through a quivering 

haze : 
O, is the dimness mine which clouds those rays ? 
They from whose glance my childhood drank 

dehght ! 
A joy unquestioning — a love intense — 
They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight 
The harmony of their magnificence. 
Drew silently the worship of my youth 
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth ; 
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams 

divine, 

Do-wi. ■^' the watcher on the stormy sea, 

And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine 

Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, 

And to the wanderer lone 

On wastes of Afric thrown, 

And not to me ? 
Am I a thing forsaken ? 
And is the gladness taken 
From the bright- pinioned nature which hath 

soared 
rhrough realitis by royal eagle ne'er explored 



And, bathing there in streams of fiery light. 
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite ? 

And now an alien ! Wherefore must this be- 

How shall I rend the chain ? 

How drink rich life again 
From those pure urns of radiance, wellir.^ 

free ? 
— Father of spirits ! let me turn to thee ! 

O, if too much exulting in her dower. 

My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued. 
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power — 

A fearful and a dazzling solitude ! 
And therefore from that haughty summit's crown 
To dim desertion is by thee cast dov/n, 
Behold ! thy child submissively hath bowed — 
Shine on him through the cloud ! 

Let the now darkened earth and curtained heaven 
Back to his vision with thy face be given ! 
Bear him on high once more. 
But in thy strength to soar, 
And rapt and stilled by that o'ershadowing 

might. 
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chas- 
tened sight. 

Or if it be that, like the ark's lone dove. 
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, 
No sheltering home of sympathy and love 
In the responsive bosoms of my race. 
And back return, a darkness and a weight, 
Till my unanswered heart grows desolate — 
Yet, yet sustain me. Holiest ! — I am vowed 

To solemn service high ; 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endowed. 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, 
Fainting beneath the burden of the day, 

Because no human tone 

Unto the altar stone 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate. 
Where it should make eternal truth its matej 
May cheer the sacred, solitary way ? 

O, be the wliisper of thy voice within 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep seeing homage for thy name, 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame ! 
Make me thine only ! — Let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undefiled, 

Which glorious minds have piled 
Through bright self-off'ering, earnest, childlike 
lone, 

For mouinting to thy throne '. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



6ftt 



And let ray soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn, 
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense 
Of that blessed work, its oAvn high recompense. 

The dimness melts away 

That on your glory lay, 
ye majestic watchers of the skies ! 

Through the dissolving veil, 

"Which made each aspect pale. 
Your gladdening fires once more I recognize ; 

And once again a shower 

Of hope, and joy, and power 
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. 
And if that splendor to my sobered sight 
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light — 
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught 
With more that pierces through each fold of 
thought 

Than I was wont to trace 

On heaven's unshadowed face — 
Be it e'en so ! — be mine, though set apart 
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still 
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart. 
Bowed before thee, O Mightiest ! whose bless6d 

will 
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.^ 



THE TRAATELLER'S EVENING SONG. 

Father ! guide me ! Day declines, 
Hollow winds are in the pines ; 
Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er the sky's last crimson glow : 
Hushed is now the convent's bell, 
Which ere while with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greeting to the sunset shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung still ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea wave's distant moan ; 
In the deep tints of the sky, 
There are signs of tempests nigh. 

t Written after hearing the introductory I.ecture on As- 
ronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir Wil- 
Kanr» Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th No- 
vember. 1832. 



Ominous, with siillen soxuiJ, 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and snade, 

O'er the wild, 
O, be thou the lone one's aid — 

Save thy cliild ! 

Many a swift and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom. 
O'er my way hath flitted fast 
Since the farewell sunbeam passed 
From the chestnut's ruddy bark. 
And the pools, now lone and dark, 
Where the wakening night winds sigh 
Through the long reeds mournfully. 
Homeward, homeward, all things haste - 

God of might ! 
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste ' 

Be his light ! 

In his distant cradle nest. 

Now my babe is laid to rest ; 

Beautiful its slumber seems 

With a glow of heavenly dreams — 

Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep, 

Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, 

Where his mother bends to pray 

For the loved and far away. 

Father ! guard that household bower, 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all- guiding power, 

Lead me there ! 

Darker, wilder grows the night ; 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern, old forest made. 
Thou ! to whose unslumbering eyes 
All my pathway open lies ; 
By thy Son, who knew distress 
In the lonely wilderness, 
Where no roof to that blessed head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! through the time of dread. 

Save — O, save ! 



BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHIl1» 
IN THE FORESTS. 

Scene. — The hanks of a solitary river in an 
American forest. A terit under pine trees in iht 
foreground. Agnes sitting before the tent tri h 
a child in her arms apparently sleeping. 



'**0 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Affnes. Surely 'tis all a dream — a fevei» 

dream ! 
The desolation and the agony — 
The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods. 
So terrible with their dark giant boughs. 
And the broad, lonely river ! — all a dream ! 
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its 

clear, 
Wi^ia singing tones, as they were wont to come 
Through the wreathed sweetbrier at my lattice 

panes 
In happy, happy England ! Speak to me ! 
Speak to thy mother, bright one ! she hath 

watched 
^11 the dread night beside thee, till her brain 
Is darkened by swift waves of fantasies, 
A-nd her soul faint wath longing for thy voice. 
0, I must wake him with one gentle kiss 
On his fair brow ! 
{Shuddermgly .) The strange, damp, thrilling 

touch ! 
The marble chill ! Now, now it rushes back — 
Now I know all*! — dead — dead ! — a fearful 

word ! 
My boy hath left me in the wilderness. 
To journey on without the blessed light 
In his deep, loving eyes. He's gone ! — he's 

gone ! 

Her Husband enters. 
Husband. Agnes ! my Agnes ! hast thou 

looked thy last 
On our sweet slumberer's face ? The hour is 

come — 
The couch made ready for his last repose. 

Agnes. Not yet ! thou canst not take him from 

me yet ! 
If he but left me for a few short days. 
This were too brief a gazing time to draw 
His angel image into my fond heart, 
And fix its beauty there. And now — O, nowy 
Never again the laughter of his eye 
Shall send its gladdening summer through my 

soul — 
Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay ! 
Thou canst not take him from me. 

Husband. My beloved ! 
Is it not God hath taken him ? the God 
That took our first born, o'er whose early 

gravo 
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and 

say, 
* His will be done ! " 

Agnes. O, that near household grave, 
Under the turf of England, seemed not half — 



I Not half so much to part me from my child 
I As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, 
And I could watch the sunshine, through all 

hours. 
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot ; 
And I could dress its greensward with freuh 

flowers, 
Familiar meadow floAvers. O'er thee, my babe ! 
The primrose wiU not blossom ! O, that now, 
Together, by thy fair young sister's side, 
We lay 'midst England's valleys I 

Husband. Dost thou grieve, 
Agnes ! that thou hast followed o'er the deep 
An exile's fortunes ? If it thus can be. 
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, 
My spirit sinks at last. 

Agnes. Forgive ! forgive ! 
My Edmund, pardon me ! O, grief is wild — 
Forget its words, quick spraydrops from a fount 
Of unkown bitterness ! Thou art my home I 
Mine only and my blessed one ! Where'er 
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, 
There is my country ! there my head shall rest. 
And throb no more. O, still, by thy strong love, 
Bear up the feeble reed ! 

{Kneeling with the child iti her arms.) 

And thou, my God . 
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness ! 
O, hear, and pardon me ! If I have made 
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark 
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happi 

ness. 
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume 
O, pardon me ! 

If nature hath rebelled, 
And from thy light turned wilfully away, 
Making a midnight of her agony. 
When the despairing passion of her clasp 
Was from its idol stricken at one touch 
Of thine almighty hand — O, pardon me ! 
By thy Son's anguish, pardon ! In the soul 
The tempests and the -^'aves will know tii» 

voice — 
Father ! say, " Peace, De still " 

{Giving the child to her husband.) 

Farewell, my >jt )e \ 
Go trom my bosom now to other reot ! 
With this last kiss on thine unsullie'^ brow. 
And on thy pale, calm cheek these C0D*^-\te tearsi, 
I vield thee to thy Maker ! 
Husband. Now, my wife ! 
Thine own meek holiness bearat forth once more 
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, 
From thy dear arms, the slunberor to repose — 
With a calm, trustful heart 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. Ml 


Agnes. My Edmund ! where — 


Woods unknoAvii receive him. 


Where wilt thou lay him ? 


'Midst the mighty wild ; 


Hu£band. Seest thou where the spire 


Yet with God we leave him, 


Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun 


Blessed, bless6cl child ! 


To burning gold > — there — o'er yon willow 


And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust, 


tuft ? 


Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust. 


(Jndc-r that native desert monument 




Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, 


Though his eye hath brightened 


With the gray mosses of the wilderness 


Oft our weary Avay, 


Hath lined it closely throiigh ; and there breathed 


And his clear laugh lightened 


forth, 


Half our hearts* dismay ; 


E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart. 


Still in hope we give back what was given. 


A wild, sad forest hymn — a song of tears. 


Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven. 


Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy 




Chanting it o'er his solitary task, 


And to her who bore him. 


As wails a wood bird to the thrilling leaves, 


Her who long must weep. 


Perchance unconsciously. 


Yet shall Heaven restore him 


Agnes. My gentle son ! 


From his pale, sweet sleep ! 


The affectionate, the gifted ! With what joy — 


Those blue eyes of love and peace again 


Edmund, rememberest thou ? — \\ith what 


Through her soul will shine, undimmed by paaa 


bright ]oy 




His baby brother ever to his arms 


Where the long reeds quiver, 


Would spring from rosy sleep, and pla^'fully 


^\Tiere the pines make moan, 


Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair 


Leave we by the river 


In that kind, useful breast ! 0, now no more ! 


Earth to earth alone ! 


3 -at strengthen me, my God ! and melt my heart. 


God and Father ! may our joumeyings cr 


Even to a wellspring of adoring tears, 


Lead to where the bless6d boy is gone , 


For many a blessing left. 




{Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell ! 


From the exile's sorrow, 


0, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look ! 


From the wanderer's dread 


How can it be sustained r Away, away ! 


Of the night and morrow. 


{After a short pmise.) 


Early, brightly fled. 


Edmund ! my woman's nature still is weak — 


Thou hast called him to a sweeter homi^ 


I cannot see thee render dust to dust ! 


Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam- 


Go thou, my husband ! to thy solemn task ; 




I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer 


Now let thought behold him, 


Till thy return. 


With his angel look, 


Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer ! 


Where those arms infold him, 


Peace on thy bosom ! Faith and heavenly 


Which benignly took 


hope 


Israel's babes to their good Shepherd's breast. 


Unto thy spirit ! Fare thee well a while ! 


When his voice their tender meekness blossed 


We must be pilgrims of the woods again, 




After this mournful hour. 


Turn thee noAv, fond mother ! 




From thy dead, 0, turn ! 


. He goes out with the child. — Agxes kneels in 


Linger not, young brother, 


prayer. — After a time, voices withoxit are heard 


Here to dream and mourn : 


singing.) 


Only kneel once more around the sod, 




Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to Gcd ! 


FUNERAL HYMN. 




Where the long reeds quiver, 




Where the pines make moan, 




By the forest river, 


EASTER DAY IN A MOUNTAIN 


Sleeps our babe alone. 


CHURCHYARD. 


England's field flowers may not deck his grave, 


There is a wakening on the mightv hills, 


•"Jypress shadows o'er him darkly wave. 

91 


A kindling with the spirit of the morn I 



.42 



SCENES AND HYIMNS OF LIFE. 



Bright gleams are scattered from the thousand 

rills, 
Ajid a soft \asionary hue is bom 

On the young foliage, worn 
By all the imbosomed woods — a silvery green, 
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously 



And lo ! where, floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone imidst a crystal sky ! 
Ix> i whore the darkness of his buoyant wings, 
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high. 

Trembles with melody ! 
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth. 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts wore prcious by its breath are 

shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's 

head 

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye 
O'er nature's face the coloring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the fount of immortality, 
Which, filled with balm, unknown to human 

woes. 

Lay hushed in dark repose. 
Till thou, bright dayspring ! mad'st its waves 

our own, 
By thine unsealing of the burial stone. 

Sing, thetJ, viith all your choral strains, ye 

hills! 
And let a full victorious tone be given, 
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills 
Your urn-like depths with sound ! The tomb is 

riven. 

The radiant gate of neaven 
Unfolded — and the stern, dark shadow cast 
3y death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's 

bosom past. 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, 
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand. 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed : 
But not by time, and not by nature, sown 
Was the celestial seed, whence round ynu peace 
hath grown. 



Christ hath arisen ! O, not one cherished head 
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillowed 

here 
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier, 

A hope, upspringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn, 
W^hich lit the living way to all of woman bcm 

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love ! 
E'en on this greensward : night hath heard thj 

cry. 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above — 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who w.ept like thee, thy Lord, thy Guide, 
Christ hath arisen, O love ! thy tears shall all be 

dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of thos« 

tears. 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassioned soul, in elder years, 
When, burdened with the mystery of its doom, 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath 
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts 

of death. 

By thee, sad Love ! and by thy sister. Fear, 
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 
To veil that haunting shadow, still too. near, 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought, 

And where the board was fraught 
^Vith wine and myrtles in the summer bower, 
Felt, e'en when disavowed, a presence and » 
power. 

But that dark night is closed ; and o'er the dead, 
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have 

blown. 
And where the mountain heath a couch has 

spread. 
And, settling oft on some gray, lettered stcine, 

The redbreast warbles lone ; 
And the wild bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass, 
Like a low thrill of harpstrings, through tht 

grass ; 

Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian^i 

sleep, 
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye 
For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep. 
And the green hills wherein these valleys li© 
Seem all one sanctuary 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



64^ 



Of holiest thought — nor needs their fresh, 

bright sod, 
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to 

God.. 

Christ hath arisen ! O mountain peaks ! attest — 
"Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave ! 
The immortal courage in the human breast 
Sprung from that victory — tell how oft the 

bra re 
To camp 'midst rock and cave, 
N^erved by those words, their struggling faith 

have borne. 
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of 

morn ! 

1'he Alps have heard sweet hymnings for 

to-day — 
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone 
Have thrilled their pines, when those that knelt 

to pray 
Rose Tip to arm ! The pure, high snows have 

known 
A coloring not their own, 
But from true hearts, which, by that crimson 

btain. 
Gave token of a trust that called no suffering 

vain. 

Those days are past — the mountains wear no 

more 
The solemn splendor of the martyr's blood ; 
And may that awful record, as of yore, 
Never again be known to field or flood ! 

E'en though the faithful stood, 
A noble army, in the exulting sight 
Of earth and heaven, w^hich blessed their battle 

for the right ! 

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 

Thus steadfastly endure, 
fcrlory to Him w'hose victory won that dower ! 
Him from whose rising streamed that robe of 
spirit power. 

Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast ! 
Light to the nations ! He hath rolled away 
The mists which, gathering into death- like rest, 
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay — 

His love hath made it day 
With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea ! 
uift uo glad strains for man by truth divine 
nc-ide free ! 



THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE. 



'A (lancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, to waylay. 



A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death." 

WOED8W IKTB- 

I SAW him at his sport ere whQe, 

The bright, exulting boy! 
Like summer's lightning came the smile 

Of his young spirit's joy — 
A flash that', wheresoe'er it broke, 
To ILte undreamed-of beauty woke. 

His fair locks waved in sumly play, 

By a clear fountain's side. 
Where jewel-colored pebbles lay 

Beneath the shallow tide ; 
And pearly spray at times would meet 
The glancing of his fairy feet. 

He twined him wreaths of all spring flower» 
Which drank that streamlet's dew ; 

He flung them o'er the wave in showers. 
Till, gazing, scarce I knew 

Which seemed more pure, or bright, or wild 

The singing fount or laughing child. 

To look on all that joy and bloom 

Made earth one festal scene, 
Where the dull shadow of the tomb 

Seemed as it ne'er had been. 
How could one image of decay 
Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day ? 

I saw once more that aspect bright — 
The boy's meek head was bowed 

In silence o'er the Book of Light, 
And, like a golden cloud, — 

The still cloud of a pictured sky, — 

His locks drooped round it lovingly. 

And if my heart had deemed him fair, 

When, in the fountain glade, 
A creature of the sky and air, 

Almost on wings he played, 
O, how much holier beauty now 
Lit the young human being's brow ( 

The being born to toil, to die, 

To break forth from the tomb 
Unto far nobler destiny 

Than waits the skylark's plume ! 
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour. 
Win the first knowledge of his dower. 



544 



SCENES AND HY^INS OF LIFE. 



The soul, the awakening soul I saw — 

My watching eye could trace 
The shadows of its new-born awe 

Sweeping o'er that fair face, 
As o'er a flower might pass the shade 
By some dread angel's pinion made ! 

The sold, the mother of deep fears, 

Of high hopes infinite, 
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, 

Of sleepless inner sight ; 
Lovely, but solemn, it arose, 
Unfolding what no more might close. 

The red-leaved tablets,' undefiled, 

As yet, by evil thought — 
O, little dreamed the brooding child 

Of what within me wrought, 
While his young heart fi.rst burned and stirred. 
And quivered to the eternal word. 

And reverently my spirit caught 

The reverence of his gaze — 
A sight "w-ith dew of blessing fraught 

To hallow after days ; 
To make the proud heart meekly wise. 
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. 

It seemed as if a temple rose 

Before me brightly there ; 
And in the depths of its repose 

My soul o'erflowed -with prayer, 
Feeling a solemn presence nigh — 
The power of infant sanctity ! 

O Father ! mould my heart once more 

By thy prevailing breath ! 
Teach me, 0, teach me to adore 

E'en with that pure one's faith — 
A faith, all made of love and light, 
Childlike, and therefore full of might ! 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

" Be mute who will, who can ; 
Tct 1 will praise thee with impassioned voice! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Reared for t.iy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship, here and every where." — Wobdswohth. 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! I lift mine eye. 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 

1 "All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon 
fre red leaved tablets of m)' heart." — II .\ ywood. 



And owned thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple stiU ! — that nevek 
yet 
There hath thy face been shrouded from mj 

sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night 
I bless thee, O my God I 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine. 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine. 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, 
In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountaini 
old, 
And the low thrillings of the forest shade. 

And the wild sound of waters uncontrolled — 
And upon many a desert plain and shore — 
No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 

The gift, the vision of the unsealed eye, 
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings 
spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain urns that lie 
Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 
And pure, a consecration unto thee . 
I bless thee, my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening power— if thou hast made 
Like the winged seed the breathings of my 
thought, 
And by the swift mnds bid them be conveyed 
To lands of other lays, and there become 
Native as early melodies of home : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreatli, 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper, in my song hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, 

Or but one hope, one prayer — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the lov« 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs 

Yet, with a coloring halo from above, 
Tino;es and 2:lorifics all earth]' "injrs. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



64« 



Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, 
Btlll weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 

And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness. 
Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

1 have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Wellspring of love, the unfathoraed, the divine, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, 
or dread, 
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken 

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed : 
rhat passing storms have only fanned the fire 
Which pierced them still with its triumphal 
spire, 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale. 

Each sound and token of the dying day ; 
Thou leav'st me not — though early life grows 
pale, 
I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud 
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

A.nd if this earth, with all its choral streams. 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams. 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

Tis not that fondly I would Unger here. 

But that thy footprints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And that the tender shadowing I behold, 
li.3 tracery veining every leaf and flower. 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould. 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

'I'hat life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! the young, vernal voices in the skies 
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine 
ear, 
Beem heralds of th' eternal melodies. 

The spirit music, iraperturbcd and clear — 
the full of soul, yet passionate no more : 
L«t vie, too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, my God ! 



Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come — 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children 
are ! 
And for the hope of that immortal home. 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star 
The sufferer and the victor king of death, 
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath I 
I bless thee, O mv God ! 



THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTEB 
SCOTT. 



" Many an eye 
May wail the dimming of our shining rtar.' 



SnAK8PSAB& 



A GLORIOUS voice hath ceased ! 
Mournfully, reverently — the funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! There is a dreamy sounds 
A hollow murmur of the dying year. 
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad ! 
A more ^olian, melancholy tone 
Than ever wailed o'er bright things perishing ! 
For that is passing from the darkened land 
Which the green summer will not bring ui 

back, 
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! They bear the mighty forth, 
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind ; 
They bear him through the household paths, 

the groves, 
Where every tree had music of its own 
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love — 
And he is silent ! Past the living stream 
They bear him now ; the stream whose kindly 

voice. 
On alien shores, his true heart burned to hear — 
And he is silent ! O'er the heathery hills. 
Which his own soul had mantled with a light 
Richer than autumn's purple, nnv they move — 
And he it .^^ent ! — he, whose flexile lips 
Were but unsealed, and lo ! a thousand lorras, 
From every pastoral glen and fern- clad height, 
In glowing life upsprang — vassal and chief, 
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle peeJ, 
Fast rushing through the brightly- troubled s^. 
Like the Wild Huntsman's band. And 8t^^ 

they live, 
To those fair scenes imperishably bounci, 
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by. 
Startle the wanderer who hath listened theie 
To the seer's voice ; phantoms of colored thought i 
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence ! j 

O power, whose breatliings thus could wa.ke thi 

dead ! 



i 

*48 SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 


VVTio shall wake thee f lord of the buried past ! 


Watching in breathless awe, 


A-nd art thou there — to those dim nations joined, 


The bright head bowed we saw. 


Thy subject host so long r The Avand is dropped, 


Beneath thy hand ! 


The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand 


Filled by one hope, one fear, 


Touched, and the genii came ! Sing reverently 


Now o'er a brother's bier 


The funeral chant ! The mighty is borne home, 


Weeping we stand. 


A.nd who shall be his mourners ? Youth and 




age, 


How hath he passed ! — the lord 


For each hath felt his magic — love and grief. 


Of each deep bosom chord, 


For he hath communed with the heart of 


To meet thy sight. 


each ; 


Unman tied and alone. 


Yes — the free spirit of humanity 


On thy blessed mercy thrown. 


May join the august procession, for to him 


Infinite ! 


Its mysteries have been tributary things. 


V 


And all its accents knoAvn. From field or w'ave. 


So, from his harvest home, 


Never was conqueror on his battle bier, 


Must the tired peasant come ; 


By the veiled banner and the muffled drum, 


So, in one trust, 


And the proud drooping of the crested head. 


Leader and king must yield 


More nobly followed home. The last abode, 


The naked soul revealed 


The voiceless dwelling of the bard, is reached : 


To thee. All-just ! 


A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly 
With all th' imploring beauty of decay ; 


The sword of many a fight — 
What then shall be its might ? 

The lofty lay 
That rushed on eagle wing — 
What shall its memory bring ? 

What hope, what stay ? 


A stately couch 'midst ruins ! meet for him 
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king 


Of other days, laid lonely with his sword 
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant 
Over the honored grave! The grave! — 0, 


say 


Father ! in that hour. 


Rather the shrine ! — an altar for the love, 


When earth aU succoring power 


The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths 


Shall disavow ; 


Of years unborn — a place where leaf and flower. 


When spear, and shield, and crown 


By that which dies not of the sovereign dead. 


In faintness are cast down — 


Shall be made holy things, where every weed 


Sustain us. Thou ! 


Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift 




From buried glory breathed. And now what 


By Him who bowed to take 


strain. 


The death cup for our sake, 


Making victorious melody ascend 


The thorn, the rod ; 


High above Sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb 


From whom the last dismay 


Where he that swayed the nations thus is laid — 


. Was not to pass away — 


Die crow ned of men ? 


Aid us, God ! 


A lowly, lowly song. 


• 




Tremblers beside the grave, 


Lowly and solemn be 


We call on thee to save, 


Thy children's cry to thee, 


Father divine ! 


Father divine ! 


Hear, hear our suppliant breath ! 


A hymn of suppliant breath, 


Keep us, in life and death, 


Owning that life and death 


Thine, only thine ! 


Alike are thine ! 




A spirit on its way, 




Sceptred the earth to sway. 


THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS 


From thee was sent : 






SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF COKREGGIO 8. 


Now call' St thou back thine own — 




Hence is that radiance flown — 


In the deep wilderness unseen she prayed, 


'I'o ca;th but lent. 


The daughter of Jerusalem ; alt>-3 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



64, 



With all the still, smail whispers of the night, 
A.nd witli the searching glances of the stars, 
And with her God, alone : she lifted up 
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her 

head, 
rhe dark leaves thrilled with prayer — the tear- 
ful prayer 
Of "woman's quenchless, yet repentant love. 

Father of spirits, hear ! 
Look on the inmost heart to thee revealed. 
Look on the fountain of the burning tear, 
Defore thy sight in solitude unsealed ! 

Hear, Father ! hear, and aid ! 
If I have loved too well, if I have shed, 
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head. 
Gifts on thy shrine, my God ! more fitly laid ; 

If I have sought to live 
But in 07ie light, and made a human eye 
The lonely star of mine idolatry. 
Thou that art Love ! O, pity and forgive ! 

Chastened and schooled at last. 
No more, no more my struggling spirit bums. 
But, fi xed on thee, from that wild worship turns — 
Whai have I said ? — the deep dream is not past ! 

Yet hear ! — if still I love, 
U, still too fondly — if, forever seen, 
An eartlily image comes my heart between 
And thy calm glory. Father ! throned above ; 

If still a voice is near, 
(E'en while I strive these w^anderings to control,) 
An earthly voice disquieting my soul 
With its deep music, too intensely dear ; 

Father ! draw to thee 

My lost affections back ! — the dr earning eyes 
Clear from their mist — sustain the heart that 

dies ; 
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free ! 

1 must love on, O God ! 

This bosom must love on ! — but let thy breath 
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not 

death, 
Liaring it up to heaven — love's own abode i 

Ages and ages past, the wilderness, 
With its dark cedars and the thrilling night, 
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, 
That WcA aU sound, were conscious of those 
prayers. 



How many such ha r. woman's bursting Heart 
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed. 
Like the dim night flower's odor, up to God ! 



PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE. 

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH KEVOLUTION.' 

" From their spheres 
The stars of human glory arc cast down, 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palma 
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed ! 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own." — Wordsworth. 

Scene — Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, durini 
the Reign of Terror. 

D'AuBiGNE, an aged Royalist — Blanche, hi$ 

daughter, a young girl. 

Blanche. What was your doom, my father 
In thine arms 
I lay unconsciousl)' through that dread hour. 
Tell me the sentence ! Could our judges look, 
W^ithout relenting, on thy silvery hair ? 
Was there not mercy, father ? Will they not 
Restore us to our home ? 

D'Aubignd. Yes, my poor child ! 
They send us home. 

Blanche. O, shall we gaze again 
On the bright Loire r Will the old hamlet spir*, 
And the gray turret of our own chateau. 
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms < 
W^ill the kind voices of our villagers. 
The loving laughter in their children's eyes, 
Welcome us back at last ? But how is this ? 
Father ! thy glance is clouded — on thy bro\i 
There sits no joy ! 

D' Aubignd. Upon my brow, dear girl ! 
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn pewM 
As may befit the Christian who receives, 
And recognizes in submissive awe, 
The summons of his God. 

Blajiche. Thou dost not mean 

No, no ! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say 
They sent us home ? 

D'Aubigni. Where is the spirit's home ? 
O, most of all, in these dark, evil days, 
Where should it be — but in that world serent 

1 The last days of two prisoners in the Luxemhourg, Sil- 
lery and La Sowne, so affectiiifily described hy Helen Marii 
VVillianis, in lier Letters *'rom France, gave rise to this Iittl« 
scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, 
which they sang together in a low and restrained voice ev 
ery nighu 



MS 



SCENES AND H^MNS OF LIFE. 



Beyond the sword's reach and the tempest's 

power, — 
^^lere, but m heaven ? 
Blanche. My father ! 
D'Aubif/ni. We must die. 
We mus* look up to God, and calmly die. 
Come t: my heart, and Aveep there ! For a 

v ie 
Give nature's passion way ; then brightly rise 
In the still courage of a woman's heart. 
Do I not know thee ? Do I ask too much 
From mine own noble Blanche ? 

Blanche f (^falling on his bosom.) O, clasp me 

fast! 
Thy tremblhig child ! Hide, hide me in thine 

arms — 
Father ! 

D'Aubigni. Alas ! my flower, thou'rt young 

to go- 
Young, and so fair ! Yet were it worse, me- 

thinks, 
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, 
The loyal hearted and the chivalrous, 
And they that loved their God, have all been 

swept, 
Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth 
Through the wide land was left inviolate. 
No altar holy ; therefore did they fall, 
Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steeped 
In noble blood ; the temples are gone down ; 
The voice of prayer is hushed, or fearfully 
Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who 

would live ? 
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, 
To quit forever the dishonored soil. 
The burdened air ? Our God upon the cross — 
Our king upon the scaifold ' — let us think 
Of these — and fold endurance to our hearts. 
And bravely die ! 

Blanche. A dark and fearful way ! 
An evil doom for thy dear, honored head ! 
O tho'A the kind, the gracious ! whom all eyes 
Blessed as they looked upon ! Speak yet again — 
Bay, Wxll they part us ? 

D'Azibigni. No, my I'lanche ; in death 
We shall not be divided. 

Blanche. Thanks to God ! 
He, by thy glance, will aid me — I shall see 

1 A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, 
and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive 
amentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus ad- 
dressed him : " My friend, whoever you may be, remem- 
>er that your God expired upon the cross — your king upon 
ihe scaffold — and he who now speaks to you has had his 
limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a 



His light before me to the last. And when — 
O, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child ! — 
When shall the hour befall ? 

D'Aubign6. O, swiftly now, 
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval. 
Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that 

hour 
As yet I know not. Each low thtobnmg 

pulse 
Of the quick pendulum may usher in 
Eternity ! 

Blanche, {kneeling before him.) My father ! M&y 

thy hand 
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once agam 
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness — 
Thus breathing saintly courage through hei 

soul, 
Ere we are called. 

DAubigni. If I may speak through tears ! — 
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently. 
Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on 

me 
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love ! 
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path, 
A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul, 
A stainless lily in my widowed house. 
There springing up, with soft light round the« 

shed. 
For immortality ! Meek child of God ! 
I bless thee — He will bless thee ! In his 

love 
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world 
To thy Redeemer's breast ! And thou wilt die 
As thou hast lived, my duteous, holy Blanche ! 
In trusting and serene submissiveness. 
Humble, yet full of heaven. 

Blanche, {rising.) Now is th^ir strength 
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise 
And say, " Thy will be done ! ' 

D'Aubigni, (pointing upiva^ds.) Seest thou, 

my child ! 
Yon faint light in the west ? — the signal star 
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in 
Through the close dungeon grating ! Mourn- 

fully 
It seems to quiver ; yet shall ih:s night pass. 
This night alone, without the lifted voice 
Of adoration in our narrow cell, 
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith 
Silenced the strain ? No ! let it waft to Heaven 
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortaijty. 
In its dark hour once more ! And we wiE 

sleep, 
Yes — calmly sleep, when our l<^st rite is closed 
\They sing togrthei 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



>i« 



PRISONER 3 EVENING SONO. 

We see no more in thy pure skies, 
How soft, O God ! the sunset dies ; 
How every colored hill and wood 
Seems melting in the golden flood : 
Yet, by the precious memories won 
From bright hours now forever gone. 
Father ! o'er all thy works, we know. 
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow ; 
Still touching every cloud and tree 
With glory, eloquent of thee ; 
Still feeding all thy flowers with light. 
Though man hath barred it from our sight. 

We know thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, 
the All -just ! 

ind bless thee still with free and boundless 
trust ! 

"We read no more, O God ! thy ways 

On earth, in these wild, evil days. 

The red sword in the oppressor's hand 

[s ruler of the weeping land ; 

Fallen are the faithful and the pure. 

No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. 

Yet, by the deep voice from the past. 

Which tells us these things cannot last — 

And by the hope which finds no ark 

Save in thy breast, Avhen storms grow dark — 

We trust thee ! As the sailor knows 

That in its place of bright repose 

His polestar burns, though mist and cloud 

May veil it with a midnight shroud. 

We know thou reign'st, All-holy One, All-just ! 

^nd bless thee still with love's own boundless 
trust. 

We feel no more that aid is nigh. 

When our faint hearts within us die. 

We suffer — and we know our doom 

Must be one suffering till the tomb. 

Yet, by the anguish of thy Son 

When his last hour came darkly on ; 

B) his dread cry, the air which rent 

In terror of abandonment ; 

Ar.d by his parting word, which rose 

Through faith victorious o'er all woes — 

We know that thou mayst wound, mayst 

break 
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake ! 
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn. 
In our deep need to thee we turn ! 

To whom but thee ! All-merciful, All-just ! 

t» life, in death, we yield thee boundless 
trust ! 

h2 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS IMOUNTAIN 
EERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 

" Thanks be to God for the mountaine I " | 

Ho WITT'S "Book of the Seaaom. 

For the strength of the hills we jless t? ee 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Ovir God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

W^hose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky : 
The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark, resounding caverns. 

Where thy still, small voice is heard; 
For the strong pines of the forests, 

That by thy breath are stirred ; 
For the storms, on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless the« 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for thij communion, 

Have sought the mountain sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee^ 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves : 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless the* 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence, 
Round our camp of rock outspread ; 

For the stern defiles of battle, 
Bearing record of our dead : 



S60 SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 

1 


For the snows and for the torrents, 


A stern, yet holy scene ! 


For the free hearts' burial sod ; 


Billows, where strife hath been, 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


Sinking to awful sleep ; 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


And words, that breathe the sense 




Of God's omnipotence. 




Making a minster of that silent deep. 




Borne through such hours afar. 




Thy flag hath been a star 


FRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY. 


Where eagle's wings near flew ; 


" The land shall never rue, 


England ! the unprofaned, 


80 England to herself do prove but true. " — Shakspeaee. 


Thou of the earth unstained. 




0, to the banner and the shrine be true I 


Through evening's bright repose 




A voice of prayer arose, 




When the sea fight was done : 




The sons of England knelt, 




With hearts that now could melt. 


THE INDIAN'S REVENGE. 


For on the wave her battle had been won. 






SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY 


Round their tall ship, the main 




Heaved with a dark-red stain. 


[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene ii 
founded are recorded in Game's Narrative of the Moravian 


Caught not from sunset's cloud ; 


Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatii 


While with the tide swept past 


sketch.] 


Pennon and shivered mast. 






" But by my wrongs and by my wrath, 


Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bowed. 


To-morrow Areouski's breath, 




That fires yon heaven with storms of death, 




ShaU light me to the foe 1 " 


But free and fair on high, 


Indian Song in " Gertrude of Wyoming." 


A native of the sky. 




Her streamer met the breeze ; 


Scene. — The shore of a Lake surroimded by deep 


It flowed o'er fearless men, 


woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, over- 


Though, hushed and childlike then, 


shadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herr- 


Before their God they gathered on the seas. 


mann, the missionary, seated alotie before the 




cabin. The hour is evening twilight. 


0, did not thoughts of home 




O'er each bold spirit come, 


Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone 


As from the land sweet gales ? 


swift canoe 


In every word of prayer 


Shooting across the waters ? — No, a flash 


Had not some hearth a share. 


From the night's first, quick firefly, lost again 


Borne bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales ? 


In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark 




Is on the wave ; no rustle of a breeze 


Yes ! bright, green spots that lay 


Comes through the forest. In this new, strange 


In beauty far away. 


world, 


Hearing no billow's roar. 


0, how mysterious, how eternal, seeias 


Safer from touch of spoil. 


The mighty melancholy of the woods ! 


For that day's fiery toil. 


The desert's own great spirit, infinite I 


tlcse on high hearts, that now with love gushed 


Little they know, in mine own fatherland. 


o'er. 


Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst 




The wild Hartz mountains, or the sylvan gladei? 


A solemn scene and dread ! 


Deep in the Odenwald — they little know 


The victors and the dead, 


Of what is solitude ! In hours like this. 


The breathless burning sky ! 


There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage 


And, passing with the race 


hearths 


Of waves that keep no trace. 


Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattico* 


rhe wilJ. brief signs of human victory ! 


To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,. 



S^JENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



b»i 



Jn the home path; while round his lowly 

porch, 
With eager eyes awaiting his return, 
The clustered faces of his children shine 
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond 

thoughts ! 
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope 
By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God ! 
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee. 
Till all the hollow of these deep desires 
May mth thyself be filled ! Be it e'^oug^ 
At once to gladden and to solemniz<» 
My lonely life, if for thine altar here 
In this drf^ad temple of. the wilderness, 
liy prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win 
The offering of one heart, one human heart, 
Bleeding, repenting, loving ! 

Hark ! a step, 
An Indian tread ! I know the stealthy sound — 
'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass 
Gliding so serpent-like. 

{He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior 
armed^') 
Enonio, is it thou ? I see thy form 
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine 

eye 
Discerns thy face. 
Enonio. My father speaks my name. 
Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase 

returned ? 
The nightfires lit ? Why is my son abroad ? 
Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler 

prey 
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave 
The lone path free. 

Herrmann. The forest way is long 
From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee a 

while 
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak 
Of these things further. 

Enonio. Tell me not of rest ! 
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. 
I must begone. 

Herrmann, {solemnly.) No, warrior ! thou 

must stay ! 
Ilie mighty One hath given me power to search 
Thy soul with piercing words — and thou must 

stay, 
And hear me, and give answer ! If thy heart 
Be grown thus restless, is it not because 
Within its da:k folds thou hast mantled up 
Some burning thought of ill ? 

Efuinio, {loith sudden impetuosiiy. ) How should 

I rest ? 
i ast 'i-gixt the spirit of my brother came. 



An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, 
And said, ." Aveyige me ! " In the clouds tnii 

morn 
I saw the frowning color of his blood — 
And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon 
Alone beside the sounding waterfall, 
And through its thunder music spake a tone — 
A low tone — piercing all the roll of waves — 
And said, "Avenge me!" Therefore hav* 1 

raised 
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again. 
That I may send the shadow from my couch, 
And take the strange sound from the catarwjt 
And sleep once more- 

Herrmann. A better path, my son 
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep. 
My hand in peace can guide thee — e'en the wal 
Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou lov«^ 
That lost one well ? 

Enonio. Know'st thou not we grew up 
EA'en as twin roes 'midst the wilderness ? 
Unto the chase we journeyed in one path ; 
We stemmed the lake in one canoe 5 we lay 
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung 
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand 
Was still beneath my head ; my brother's robe 
Covered my bosom from the chill night air — 
Our lives Avere girdled by one belt of love 
Until he turned him from his father's gods. 
And then my soul fell from him — then the gra&i 
Grew in the way between our parted homes ; 
And wheresoe'er I wandered, then it seemed 
That all the woods were silent. I went forth - 
I journeyed, with my lonely heart, afar, 
And so returned — and where was he ? The eartV 
Owned him no more. 

Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then, 
Hast turned thee from the idols of thy tribe, 
And, like thy brother, bowed the suppliant 

knee 
To the one God. 

Enonio. Yes ! I have learned to pray 
With my white father's words, yet all the mor« 
My heart, that shut against my brother's lov«, 
Hath beeit within me as an arrowy fire. 
Burning my sleep away. In the night hush, 
'Midst the strange whispers and dim 8had?\ri 

things 
Of the great forests, I have called aloud, 
* Brother ! forgive, forgive ! " He answereil 

not — 
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls. 
Cries but '•^Avenge me! " — and I go forth now 
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes 
Gleam on me mournfully from that ^ale shor#» 



^62 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, 
" I have avenged thee ! " 
I Herrmann. O that human love 

i Should be the root of this dread bitterness, 
I till Heaven through all the fevered being pours 
Transmuting balsam ! Stay, Enonio ! stay ! 
Thy brother calls thee not ! The spirit world 
Where the departed go sends back to earth 
No visitants for evil. 'Tis the might 
3f tSie strong passion, the remorseful grief 
At work in thine own breast, which lends the 

voice 
Unto the forest and the cataract, 
The angry color to the clouds of morn, 
The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son ! 
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch. 
When of the murderer's poisoned shaft he died, 
I knelt and prayed ; he named his Savior's name. 
Meekly, beseechingly ; he spoke of thee 
In pity and in love. 

Enonioy {hurriedly.') Did he not say 
My arrow should avenge him ? 

Hurrmann. His last words 
Were all forgiveness. 

Enonio. What ! and shall the man 
Wlto pierced him with the shaft of treachery 
Walk fearless forth in joy ? 

Herrmann. Was" he not once 
Thy brother's friend? O, trust me, not in joy 
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love, 
Too late repentant of its heart estranged. 
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train 
Of sounds and shadows — and shall he escape ? 
Enonio, dream it not ! Our God, the All-just, 
Unto himself reserves this royalty — 
The secret chastening of the guilty heart, 
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, 
Leave it with him ! Yet make it not thy hope ; 
For that strong heart of thine — O, listen yet — 
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish 
For death or torture to the guilty one, 
Ere it can sleep again. 

Eno7iio. My father speaks 
Of change, for man too mighty. 

Herrmann. I but speak 
Of that which hath been, and again must be. 
If thou wouldst join thy brother in the life 
Of the bright country where, I well believe. 
His soul rejoices. He had known such change : 
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named 
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart, 
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words 
WVich, from the Savior's cross, went up to 

heaven - 
" Forgive them^ for they knoio not what they do ! 



Father, forgive ! " — And o'er the eternal boundj 
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled. 
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem. 
Hath to his Master passed. He waits thee there— 
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from th« 

grave, 
Immortal in its holiness. He calls 
His brother to the land of golden light 
And ever-living fountains — couldst thou hear 
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say, 
•♦ My brother ! O, be pure, be merciful ! 
That we may meet again." 

Enonio, {hesitating.') Can I return 
Unto my tribe, and unavenged ? 

Herrmann. To Him, 
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps 
Have wandered far and long ! Return, my son, 
To thy Redeemer ! Died he not in love — 
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God — 
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies ? 
And loe, dare we be ruthless ? By his aid 
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place 
'Midst the pure spirits. O, retrace the way 
Back to thy Savior ! he rejects no heart, 
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears 
Be o'er them showered. Ay ! weep, thou In- 
dian chief ! 
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold 
Thy proud lips working — weep, relieve thy soul ! 
Tears M'ill not shame thy manhood in the hour 
Of its great conflict. 

Enonio, {giving vp his weapons to Herrmann.) 
Father ! take the bow, 
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call 
Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell 
A little while, my father ! by thy side. 
That I may hear the blessed words again — 
Like water brooks amidst the summer hills — 
From thy true lips flow forth ; for in my heart 
The music and the memory of their sound 
Too long have died away. 

Herrmann. O, welcome back. 
Friend, rescued one ! Yes, thou shalt oe mj 

guest, 
And we will pray beneath my sycamore 
Together, morn and eve ; and I will spread 
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last — 
After the visiting of holy thoughts — 
With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes ! 
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back 
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again ! 
{They go into the cabin together. — Herrmann, 

lingering for a moment on the threshold, locki 

up to the starry skies.) 
Father ! that from amidst yon gloricus worldn 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



659 



Now look'st on us, thy cliildren ! make this hour 

Bl<»ssed forever ! May it see the birth 

Of thine own image in the unfathomed deep 

Of an immortal soul — a thing to name 

With reverential thought, a solemn world ! 

To thee more precious than those thousand stars 

Burning on high in thy majestic heaven ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY. 

Father of heaven and earth ! 

I bless thee for the night, 

The soft, still night ! 
The holy pause of care and mirth, 

Of sound and light ! 

Now, far in glade and dell, 

Flower cup, and bud, and bell 
fiaye shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest ; 

The bee's long-murmuring toils are done, 

And I, the o'erwearied one, 

O'erwearied and o'erwrought, 
Bless thee, O God ! O Father of the oppressed ! 

With my last waking thought, 
In the still night ! 

Yes ! e'er I sink to rest. 

By the fire's dying light. 

Thou Lord of earth and heaven ! 

I bless thee, who hast given. 
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night — 

The soft, still, holy night. 



THE DAY OF FLOWERS. 

A mother's walk with her child. 

" One spirit — His 
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows — 
Kules universal nature. Not a flower 
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, 
Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues. 
And bathes their eyes with nectar. 
Happy who walks with him ! " — Cowpee. 

Come to the woods, my boy ! 
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth. 
My happy child ! The spirit of bright hours 
Wooes us in every wind ; fresh wild leaf scents, 
From thickets, where the lonely stockdove broods, 
Enter our lattice ; fitful songs of joy 
Float in with each soft current of the air ; — • 
And we will hear their summons ; we will give 
i^ue day to flowers, and s xnshine, and glad 
*h- '^fihts, 



And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth. 
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths ; whil* 

she, 
From thy delight, wins to her o-vvn fond heart 
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back. 
Come to the woods, my boy ! 

What ! wouldst thou lead already to the path 
Along the copscAvood brook ? Come, then ! in 

truth, 
Meet playmate for a child, a bless6d child, 
Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard 
Singing its melody of happiness 
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace 
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life 
It fills the shadowy dingle ! — now the wing 
Of some low-skimming SAvallow shakes bright 

spray 
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave ; 
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep. 
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam 
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings 
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide 
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light 
From burnished films ! And mark yon silvery 

line 
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung 
Across the narrow current, from the tuft 
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough ! 
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves. 
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale, 
Y^'et breaking not — a bridge for fairy shapes. 
How delicate, how wondrous ! 

Yes, my boy ! 
Well may we make the stream's bright, windir g 

vein 
Our woodland guide ; for He who made the stream 
Made it a clew to haunts of loveliness. 
Forever deepening. O, forget him not, 
Dear child ! That airy gladness which thou 

feel'st 
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly, 
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less 
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours. 
Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all 
The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones 
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, 
My merry wanderer ! — let us rest a while 
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung 
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast. 
The soft red of the flowering willow herb 
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not 
E'en melting to a more transparent glow 
In that pure glass ? O, beautiful are streams ! 
And, through ullages, hvman hearts have Icveii 



bd4 



SCENES AND HYMNS OE LIFE. 



Their music, still accordant with each mood 
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown 
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace 
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still 
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount 
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take 
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which 

blessed 
The river deities or fountain nymphs, 
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade, 
And the sweet water's tune. The One suj^reme, 
The all-sustaining, ever-present God, 
Who dowered the soul with immortality, 
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth 
Its fleeting passage ; therefore let us greet 
Each wandering floMcr scent as a boon from 

Him, 
Each bird note, quivering 'midst light summer 

leaves, 
And every rich celestial tint unnamed. 
Wherewith, transpierced, the clouds of morn 

and eve 
Kindle and melt away ! 

And now, in love, 
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend 
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers 
Around the ruined mansion. Thou, my boy ! 
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn 
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee 
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought — 
No coloring from the past. This way our path 
Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly 

shoots 
The dragon fly along the sunbeam's line. 
Crossing the leafy gloom ! How full of life. 
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings. 
Is all the murmuring shade ! and thine, O thine ! 
Of all the brightest and the happiest here, 
My blessed child ! my gift of God ! that mak'st 
My heart o'erflow with summer ! 

Hast thou twined 
Thy wreath so soon ! yet will we loiter not. 
Though here the bluebell wave, and gorgeously 
Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed 

oak 
The heath flower spread its purple. We must 

leave 
The copse, and through yon broken avenue, 
Shadowed by drooping walnut foliage, reach 
The ruin's glade. 

And lo ! before us, fair 
Sfet desolate, amidst the golden day. 
It stands, that house of silence ! wedded now 
To verdant Nature by the o'ermantling growth 
Of leaf Jfnd *'eidril, which fonu woman's hands 



Once loved to train. How the rich wall flowej 

scent j 

From every niche and mossy cornice floats, i 

Embalming its decay ! The bee aloue 
Is murmuring from its casement, whence nc ! 

more 
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, \ 
Watching some homeward footstep. See ! nn- ' 

bound 
From the old fretted stonework, \'hat thicli 

wreaths 
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance doMx, 
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, ar-i i 

load 
The air with mournful fragrance — for it speaks 
Of life gone hence ; and the faint, southern 

breath 
Of myrtle leaves, from yon forsaken porch, : 

Startles the soul with sweetness ! Yet rich 

knots ; 

Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self sown 
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around ; 

A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy, j 

Undimmed by human change. How kindly 1 

here. 
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent ! 
And, under arches of wild eglantine, i 

Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely j 

seems , 

The frail gum cistus o'er the turf to snow { 

Its pearly flower leaves down ' Go, happy boy ! i 
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets ; j 
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial stone, | 

Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned, | 
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave 

around 
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass 
Bedded like jewels. 

He hath bounded on. 
Wild with delight ! — the crimson on his cheek 
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies 
In this deep-hearted rose cup ! Bright moss 

rose ! 
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree ! 
Once thou wert cherished ! and, by human lovt, 
Through many a summer duly visited 
For thy bloom ofl'erings, which o'er festal board 
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch 
Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed 
A joy, now lost. 

Yet shall there still be joy, 
Where God hath poured forth beauty, and th« 

voice 
Of human love shall still be heard in praise 
Over his glorious gifts ! O Father ! I/ord ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 65A 


rhe All-beneficent ! I bless thy name, 


HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSE 


I'ha*. thou hast mantled the green earth with 


HOLD ON HIS RETURN, 


flowers, 




Linking our hearts to nature I By the love 


IN THE OLDEN TIME. 


Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first 


Joy ! the lost one is restored ! 


Into her deep recesses are beguiled — 


Sunshine comes to hearth and board. 


Her minster cells — dark glen and forest bower. 


From the far-off" countries old 


VVh^irc, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee. 


Of the diamond and red gold ; 


1 Amidst the low, religious whisperings 


From the dusky archer bands. 


And shivery leaf sounds of the solitude, 


Roamors of the fiery sands , 


The spirit wakes to worship, and is made 


From the desert winds, whose breath 


Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers. 


Smites with sudden, silent death ; 


Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares. 


He hath reached his home again, 


Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain 


Where we sing 


streams. 


In thy praise a fervent strain, 


That sing of thee ! back to free childhood's 


God, our King ! 


lieart, 




i^'resh with the dews of tenderness ! Thou 


flightiest ! unto thee he turned 


bidd'st 


When the noonday fiercest burned ; 


The lilies of the field with placid smile 


When the fountain springs were far 


Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse 


And the sounds of Arab war 


Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, 


Swelled upon the sultry blast. 


With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left 


And the sandy columns past. 


His purer nature, with its fine desires. 


Unto thee he cried ; and thou, 


Uncared for in this universe of thine ! 


Merciful ! didst hear his vow I 


The glowing rose attests it, the beloved 


Therefore unto thee again 


Of poet hearts, touched by their fervent dreams 


Joy shall sing 


With spiritual light, and made a source 


Many a sweet and thankful strain, 


Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint 


God, our King ! 


age 
rhou lend' St the vernal bliss : the old man's 


Thou wert with him on the main. 


eye 


And the snowy mountain chain, 


Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul 


And the rivers dark and wide. 


Remembers youth and love, and hopefully 


Which through Indian forests glide : 


Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs 


Thou didst guard him from the wrati 


From dust to splendor ; as the mortal seed 


Of the lion in his path, 


Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up 


And the arrows on the breeze, 


To put on glory, to be girt with power, 


And the dropping poison trees. 


And filled with immortality. Receive 


Therefore from our household train 


Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish 


Oft shall spring 


boons. 


Unto thee a blessing strain, 


And, most of all, their heavenward influences. 


God, our King ! 


Thou that gav'st us flowers ! 




Return, my boy ! — 


Thou to his lone, watching wife 


With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return ! 


Hast brought back the light of life ! 


See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touched 


Thou hast spared his loving child 


And glorified the ruin ! — glowworm, light 


Home to greet him from the wild. 


Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach 


Though the suns of Eastern skies 


Dur home again. Come ! with thy last sweet 


On his cheek have set their dyes, 


prayer 


Though long toils and sleepless cares 


At thy blessed mother's knee, to-night shall 


On his brow have blanched the hairSt 


thanks 


Yet the night of fear is flowr — 


Ur.to oiir Father in his heaven arise. 


He is living, and our own ! 


For nil the gladness, all the beauty shed 


Brethren ! spread his festal board, 


D'ei one rich dav of Sowers. 


Hang his mantle and his sword. 



656 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



With the armor, on the wall — 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to thee th' exulting strain, 

God, our King ! 



THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK. 

[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter 
Jlake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.] 

" Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, 0, think — 
And let it roitigate thy woe's excess — 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 
And friend to more than human friendship just. 
O, by that retrospect of happiness, 
And by the hope of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust." 

Campbell. 

The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens 
upon a Landscape at sunset, 

Eugene, Teresa. 

Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, 

beloved ! 
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart, 
Are clear and still once more ! Wilt thou look 

forth ? 
Now, while the sunset with low streaming 

Hght- 
The light thou lovest — hath made the elm- wood 

stems 
All burning bronze, the river molten gold ! 
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet 
The rich air filled with wandering scents and 

sounds ? 
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more 
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest 
With our own evening hymn ? 
Eugene. Not now, dear love ! 
My soul is wakeful — lingering to look forth, 
Not on the sun, but thee ! Doth the light sleep 
On the stream tenderly ? and are the stems 
Of our own elm trees, by its alchemy. 
So richly changed ? and is the sweetbrier scent 
Floating around ? But I have said farewell. 
Farewell to earth, Teresa ! — not to thee ; 
Nor yet to our deep love — nor yet a while 
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows 
Back on my soul in mastery. One last work ! 
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, 
Clinging affections, and undying hopes, 
\.ll, all in that memorial \ 



Teresa. O, what dream 
Is this, mine own Eugene ? Waste thou not tLtw 
Thy scarce-returning strength } keep thy rich 

thoughts 
For happier days — they will not melt away 
Like passing music from the lute. Dear friend , 
Dearest of friends ! thou canst win back at will 
The glorious visions. 

Eugene. Yes ! the unseen land 
Of glorious visions hath sei? orth a voice 
To call me hence. O, be thou not deceived ! 
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa ! 
I must, must leave thee ! Yet be strong, my 

love ! 
As thou hast still been gentle. 

Teresa. O Eugene ! 
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene I 
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all — 
My only sunshine ? How can I bear on ; 
How can we part r — we that have loved so well, 
With clasping spirits linked so long by grief. 
By tears, by prayer. 

Eugene. E'en therefore we can part, 
With an immortal trust, that such high love 
Is not of things to perish. 

Let me leave 
One record still of its ethereal flame 
Brightening through death's cold shadow. . Onc« 

again. 
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast, 
And eyes half veiled, in thine own soul absorbed 
As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep ; 
And I will give the bending, flower-like grace 
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned 
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile 
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast 
Their delicate earthly being. There ! thy head 
Bowed down with beauty, and vsith tenderness, 
And lowly thought — e'en thus — my own T«' 

res a ! 
O, the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom, 
That once around thee hung, have melted now 
Into more solemn light — but holier far, 
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes. 
Than all that summer flush I For by my couch, 
In patient and serene devotedness, 
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smi 'e* 
Thine oflering unto me. O, I may give 
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow, 
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye, 
Unto the canvas ; I may catch the flow 
Of all those drooping lock^ and glorify. 
With a soft halo, what is imaged thus — 
But how much rests unbreathed, my faith fjij 

one ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE 



66 



What thou hast been to me ! This hitter world ! 
This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice 
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back 
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here 
A little while — how have I turned away 
From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart 
Found ever the sweet fountain of response 
To quench my thirst for home ! 

The dear work grows 
Beneath my hand — the last ! 

Teresa, {falling on his "ifick in tears.) 
Eugene ! Eugene ! 

Break not my heart with thine excess of love ! — 
O, must I lose thee — thou that hast been still 
The tenderest — best ! 

Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved ! 
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power 
Of soothing to the last ! Mine own Teresa ! 
Take strength from strong affection ! Let our 

souls. 
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain 
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon — 
Our perfect love ! O, blessed have we been 
In that high gift ! thousands o'er earth may pass. 
With hearts unfreshened by the heavenly 

dew, 
Which hath kept ows from withering. Kneel, 

^true wife ! 
And lay thy hands in mine. 

{She kneeh beside the coiich — he prags.) 

O, thus receive 
Thy children's thanks. Creator ! for the love 
Which thou hast granted, through aU earthly 

woes, 
To spread heaven's peace around them — which 

hath bound 
Their spirits to each other and to thee, 
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath 

breathed, 
N 'vandering thought. We thank thee, gra- 

oous God ! 
Fjr all its treasured memories, tender cares, 
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, 

unchanged 
Through tears and joy ! O Father ! most of all. 
We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust. 
Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those 
That love in thee, of union, in thy sight 
And in thy heavens, immortal ! Hear our prayer ! 
Take home our fond affections, purified 
To spirit radiance from all earthly stain : 
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell, 
Father ! where all things that are lovely meet. 
And all things that are pure — foreverraore 
With thee and thine ! 

8.3 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 

Blessings, Father ! shower — 
Father of mercies ! round his precious hea«l ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour. 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed 

Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved — 
Fame, fortune, power : O, be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at thy will ! 
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of thee. 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love. 
His bosom guest inalienablj'- be, 

That, wheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimmed ! a gladness rest his own, 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land d 
dreams. 

Remembered faintly, gleams — 
Faintly remembered, and too swiftly flown ' 

So let him walk with thee. 

Made by thy Spirit free ; 
And when thou caD'st him from his mortal plaue^ 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given, 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part, 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering hear^t 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Savior's face ! 



MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICK BED 
OF A CHILD. 

Savior, that of woman bom, 
Mother sorrow didst not scorn — 
Thou, with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthly love — 
Hear and aid ! 

Low he lies, my precious child, 
With his spirit wandering wild 
From its gladsome tasks and play. 
And its bright thoughts far away — 
Savior, aid I 



168 SONNETS. 


Pain sits heavy on his brow, 




E'en though slumber seal it now ; 


NIGHT HY3IN AT SEA. 


Round hi:^ lip is quivering strife, 




In his hand unquiet life — 


THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FBLTO» 


Aid 0, aid ! 






Night sinks on the wave, 


Savior ! loose the burning chain 


Hollow gusts are sighing, 


From his fevered heart and brain ; 


Sea birds to their cave 


Give, 0, give his young soul back 


Through the gloom are flying. 


Into its own cloudless track ! 


0, should storms come sweeping, 


Hear and aid ! 


Thou, in heaven unsleeping. 




O'er thy children vigil keeping, 


Thou that saidst, " Awake ! arise ! " 


Hear, hear, and save ! 


E'en when death had quenched the eyes — 




In this hour of grief's deep sighing, 




When o'erwearied hope is dying, 


Stars look o'er the sea. 


Hear and aid ! 


Few, and sad, and shrouded ; 




Faith our light must be 


Yet, 0, make him thine, all thine, 


When all else is clouded. 


Savior ! whether Death's or mine ! 


Thou, whose voice came thrilling. 


Yet, 0, pour on human love 


Wind and billow stilling, 


Strength, trust, patience, from above ! 


Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilimg — 


Hear and aid ! 


Power dwells with thee ! 


SON^ 


rETS. 


FEMALE CHARACTERS OF 


Daughters of Judah ! with the timbrel rise ! 


SCRIPTURE. 


Ye of the dark, prophetic, Eastern eyes, 




Imperial in their visionary fire ; 


" Tour tents are desolate; your stately steps 


0, steep my soul in that old, glorious time, 


Of all their choral dances have not left 


When God's own whisper shook the cedars ol 


One trace beside the fountains ; your full cup 




Of gladness and of trembling each alil<e 


your clime ! 


Is broken. Yet, amidst undying things. 




The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still 




All the fresh glories of the early world 




Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls, 




Never to change 1 " 


INVOCATION CONTINUED. 


INVOCATION. 






And come, ye faithful ! round Messiah seen, 


^ the tired voyager on stormy seas 


With a soft harmony of tears and light 


Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore. 


Streaming through all your spiritual mien — 


To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze, 


As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright, 


Of dim, sweet woods that hear no billows roar ; 


Showers weave with sunshine, and tran8pi*»rc€ 


So, from the depth of days, when earth yet 


their slight 


wore 


Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued 


Her solemn beauty and primeval dew. 


All haughty dreams of power had winged theu 


I call you, gracious forms ! 0, come ! restore 


flight, 


A while that holy freshness, and renew 


And left high place for martjT fortitude. 


Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, 


True faith, long-suJffering love. Come to me, 


the lyre, 


come ! 



SOXXETS. 



651 



A.nd as the seas, beneath your ]Master's tread, 
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread 
liike the clear pavement of his heavenly home ; 
So, in your presence, let the soul's great deep 
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep. 



THE SONG OF MIRIAM. 

A. sosiS lot Israel's God ! Spear, crest, and helm 

Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, 
Whon Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm 

Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee. 
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free, 

Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the 
strain, 
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee 

Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. 
A. song for God's own victory ! O, thy lays. 

Bright poesy ! were holy in their birth : 
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise. 

In the bewildering melodies of earth ! 
Return from troubling, bitter founts — return 
Back to the lifesprings of thy native urn ! 



RUTH. 

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn. 
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fanned, 

Still brings me back thine image — O forlorn. 
Yet not forsaken Ruth ! I see thee stand 
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest 
band — 

Lone, as a wood bird on the ocean's foam 
Fallen in its weariness. Thy fatherland 

Smiles far away ! yet to the sense of home — 

That finest, purest, Avhich can recognize 
Home in affection's glance — forever true 

Beats thy calm heart ; and if thy gentle eyes 
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue 

Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone, 

' T/iJ/ people and thy God shall be mine own ! " 



THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH. 

" And Rizpah, the aaughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread 
It for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water 
iropped upon them out of heaven ; and suffered neither the birds 
»f the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by 
•ight."— 2 Sam. xxi. 10. 

Who watches on the mountain with the dead, 
Alone before the awfulness of night ? — 



A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might ? 
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread ? 
No — a lorn woman ! On ner drooping head. 

Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain : 

She recks not — living for the unburied slain. 
Only to scare the vulture from their bed. 
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept 
With the pale stars, and with the dt;ws Jiatl 
wept : 

O, surely some bright Presence from above 
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid ! 
E'en so ; a strengthener through all storm an:l 
shade, 

Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest Love ! 



THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE 
WOMAN. 

" And she answered, I dwell among mine own people." 

2 KiKos iv. 13. 

" I DWELL among mine own." O, happy thou! 

Not for the sunny clusters of the vine. 
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow, 
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line 
Of streams, that make the green land whera 
they shine 
Laugh to the light of waters — not for these, 
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees, 

WTiose kindly whisper floats o'er thee ant 
thine — 
O, not for these I call thee richly blest. 
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast, 
Where that sweet depth of still contentment 
lies; 
And for thy holy, household lov s, which clings 
Unto all ancient and familiar things. 
Weaving from each some link for home's deaj 
charities. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 

Lowliest of women, and most glorified ! 

In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, 
A brightness round thee grew — and by thy a>ide, 

Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone. 

Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From he/ 
throne 
A queen had risen with more imperial eye, 
A stately prophetess of victory 

From her proud lyre had struck a tempest'* 
tone. 



s«o 



SONNETS. 



For such high tidings as to thee were brought, 
Chosen of Heaven ! that hour : but thou, O 
thou, 

E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught. 
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, 

And tnke to thy meek breast th' all- holy word, 

And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. 



THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN. 

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain snow, 

Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long 
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow, 
And thy calm spirit lightened into song. 
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong 
Flowed the majestic joy of tuneful words, 
Which living harps the choirs of heaven 
among 
Might well have linked with their divinest 

chords. 
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast. 
Shall leave, where once its haughty music 
passed. 
No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh ; 
While thine, O childlike Virgin ! through all 

time 
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime, 
Being of God, and therefore not to die. 



CHE 



PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S 
FEET. 



There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, 

That saw thee, woman ! bright in this world's 
train. 
Moving to pleasure's airy melodiea, 
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. 
But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain. 
When one by one the rose leaves hac\ been torn ; 
When thy heart's core had quivered to the 
pain 
Through every life nerve sent by arrowy scorn ; 
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odors 
forth 
On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, 
^nd showering teardrop, of yet richer worth 

Than all those costly balms of Araby ; 
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven, 
For thee, the child won back, the penitent for- 
given ! 



MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST 

O, BLESSED beyond all daughters of the earth * 
What were the Orient's thrones to that lo*;^ 
seat 
Where thy hushed spirit drew celestial birth, 
Mary ! meek listener at the Savior's feet ? 
No feverish cares to that divine retreat 
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought, 
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to mee 
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought 
O for the holy quiet of thy breast, 

'Midst the world's eager tones and footstepi 

flying. 
Thou, whose calm soul was like a wellspring, 
lying 
So deep and still in its transparent rest, 
That, e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, 
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirroi 
fills. 



THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER 
THE DEATH OF LAZARUS, 

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead ! 

Was in your bosoms — thou, whose steps, 
made fleet 
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, 

Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet ; 

And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat 
Didst wait his summons, then with reverent 
love 

Fall weeping at the blessed Deliverer's feet. 
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could 

move. 
And which to Him, the All-seeing and All-just, 
Was loveliest — that quick zeal, or lowly trust ? 
O, question not, and let no law be given 

To those unveilings of its deepest shrine, 

By the wrung spirit made in outward sign : 
Free service from the heart is allin all to Heaven. 



THE MEMORIAL OF MARY. 

" Verily I say unto you, whereioever thi« gospel shall be preached 
in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath 
done be told for a memorial of her." — Matthew xxvi. 13. S* 
also J u UN zii. 3. 

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall 
And on the waters of the far mid sea 5 



SONNETS. 



60; 



Lad where the mighty mountain shadows fall, 
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee : 
Where'er, beneath some Oriental tree, 

rhe Christian traveller rests — where'er the 
child 
Looks upward from the EngUsh mother's 
knee, 

With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild. 

There art thou known — where'er the book of 
light 

Bears hope and healing, theie, beyond all blight. 
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above. 

0, say what deed so lifted thy sweet name, 

Mary ! to that pure, silent place of fame ? 
One lowly offering of exceeding love. 



THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE 
CROSS. 

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose 
gleam 
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast, 
Bath, by the cross doth your bright lingering 
seem. 
Daughters of Zion ! faithful to the last ! 
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth 
cast 
By the death cloud within the Savior's eye. 
E'en till away the heavenly spirit passed, 
Stood in the shadow of his agony. 
O blessed faith ! a guiding lamp, that hour 
Was lit for woman's heart ! To her, whose 
dower 
Is all of love and suffering from her birth. 
Still hath your act a voice — through fear, 

through strife. 
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life 
To that which her deep soul hath proved of 
holiest worth. 



MARY MAGDALENE AT THE 
SEPULCHRE. 

Weeper ! to thee how bright a morn was given 

After thy long, long vigil of despair, 
When that high Toice which burial rocks had 
riven 

Thrilled with immortal tones the silent air ! 

Never did clarion's royal blast declare 
fcrdch tale of victory to a breathless crowd 

As the deep sweetness of one word could bear 



Into thy heart of hearts, O woman ! bowed 
By strong affection's anguish ! one low word — 
" Marij ! " and all the triumph wrung from 

death 
Was thus revealed ; and thou, that so hadst 

erred. 
So wept and been forgiven, in trembling faith 
Didst cast thee down before the all- conquering 

Son, 
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had 



MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS 
OF THE RESURRECTION. 

Then was a task of glory all thine own. 

Nobler than e'er the still, small voice assigvied 
To Hps in awful music making kno^^^l 

The stormy splendors of some prophet's mind. 
" Christ is arisen !" — by thee, to wake man 
kind, 
First from the sepulchre tLose w^ords were 
brought ! 
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind 
First on its way, with those high tidings 

fraught — 
'• Christ is arisen ! " Thou, thou^ the sm in 

thralled ! 
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransomed one 
wert called 
In human hearts to give tiat rapture birth : 
O, raised from shame to brigh ,ness! there doth lie 
The tcnderest meaning of His ministry, 

Whose undespairing love still owned tht 
spirit's worth. 



SONNETS, 
DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL 

THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the harp of poesy regain 

That old victorious tone of prophet years — 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, 

And all the hovering shadows of the bram ? 

Dark, evil wings took Hight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall. 
Sank on the soul. O, who may now lecaU 

The mighty music's consecrated reign ? 

Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'erhung 



562 



SONNETS. 



A tluone, the ark's dread cherubim between, 

So let thy presence brood, though now unseen, 

O'er those two poA-ers by whom the harp is 

strung. 
Feeling and Thought ! till the rekindled chords 
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal 
words. 



TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their 
shrine. 
Cling reverently ! Of anxious looks beguiled, 
My mother's eyes upon thy page divine 
Each day were bent — her accents, gravely 

mild, 
Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy 
child. 
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring flowers 
wild, 
Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play, 
Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn word, 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard. 

Fall on thy wakened spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost — for which, in darker years, 
O book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 



REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY. 

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE. 

Under a palm tree, by the green, old Nile, 

Lulled on his mother's breast, the fair child 
lies. 
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile 

Brooding above the slumber of his eyes ; 
While, through the stillness of the burning skies, 

Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings. 
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise. 

Regal and still as everlasting things. 
Vain pomps ! from him, with that pure, flowery 
cheek, 

Soft shadowed by his mother's drooping head, 
A. new-bom spirit, mighty, and yet meek. 

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall 
spread ; 
\nd bid all earthl)- grandeurs cast the crown, 
Before the suffering and the lowly, down. 



PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST 
WITH FLOWERS. 

All the bright hues from Eastern garlandf 
glowing, 
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread*, 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing 
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. 
Roses, deep filled with rich midsummer's red, 
Circle his hands : but, in his grave, sweet eye, 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophesy 

Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with 

flowers ; 
To Him who pour-ed forth blessings in soft 
showers 
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And tve repine, for whom that cup he took. 
O'er blooms that mocked our hope, o'er idola 
that forsook ! 



ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE Or 
CHRIST. 

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI. 

I MET that image on a mirthful day 

Of youth ; and, sinking with a stilled surpricw, 

The pride of life, before those holy eyes, 
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away. 
Abashed to mute confession of a sway 

Awful, though meek. And now that, from 
the strings 

Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty winga 
Have struck forth tones which then unwakened 

lay; 
Now that, around the deep life of my mind, 
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined, 

Oft does the pale, bright vision still float by ; 
But more divinely SAveet, and speakirs' no'<o 
Of One whose pity, throned on that «aa brow, 

Sounded all depths of love, grief, aeach, hu- 
manity I 



THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 
Ye grew, fair children ! hallowed fi-om that 

hour 
By your Lord's blessing. Surely thence- » 

shower 



ONNETS. 



S6^ 



Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light, 
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, 

Through all the after years, which saw ye 
move 
Lowly, yiet still majestic, in the might, 

The conscious glory, of the Savior's love ! 
A.nd honored be all childhood, for the sake 

Of that higii love ! Let reverential care 
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake. 

And shield its first bloom from unholy air ; 
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the 

sign 
01 claims upon a heritage divine. 



MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 

"He went up to a moiintain apart to pray." 

A CHILD 'midst an'cient mountains I have stood. 

Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest 
On high. The spirit of the solitude 

Fell solemnly upon my infant breast, 
Though then I prayed not ; but deep thoughts 
have pressed 

Into my being since it breathed that air. 
Nor could I now one moment live the guest 

Of such dread scenes, without the springs of 
prayer 
O'erfiowing all my soul. No minsters rise 
Like them in pure communion with the skies, 
Vast, silent, open unto night and day ; 

So might the o'erbui-dened Son of man have 
felt, 

When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, 
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray. 



THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

** Consider the lilies of the field." 

Flowers ! when the Savior's calm, benignant 
eye 

Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 

That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew, 
Eternal, universal, as the sky — 
Then, in the bosom of your purity, 

A voice he set, as in a temple shrine, 
Chat life s quick travellers ne'ei might pass you 
by 

Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine. 
A.nd though too oft its low, celestial sound 
8y the harsh notes of work-day Care is drowned, 



And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste. 
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushef 
hour. 

Than yours, ye lihos ! chosen thus and rrrar^ ■ 



THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

" And behold the birds of the ait." 

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air, 

Were charged that hour, on missionary wing 
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear, 

Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds oi 
spring. 
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing ! 

And call us to your echoing woods, away 
From worldly cares ; and bid our spirits bring 

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awakened mind 
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life. 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, nc 
strife, 

But hangs upon its God, unconsciously r«» 
signed. 



THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 

" And he that was dead sat up and began to speak." 

H^ that teas dead rose vp and spolie — He spoke ! 

Was it of that majestic world unknown ? 
Those words, which first the bier's dread silencr 
broke, 
Came they with revelation in each tone ? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone. 

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep 
For man uncurtained by that spirit lone. 

Back from their portal summoned o'ei th« 

deep ? 
Be hushed, my soul ! the veil of darkness laj 
Still drawn : thy Lord called back the voice de- 
parted 
To spread his trutli, to comfort his weak 
hearted, 
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
O, take that lesson home in silent faith, 
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question 
death ! 



364 



SONNETS. 



THE OLIVE TREE. 

The palm — the vine — the cedar — each hath 

power 
, To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by ; 
And each quick glistening of the laurel bo^Yer 
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 
But thou, pale olive ! in thxj branches lie 
Far d3eper spells than prophet grove of old 

Might e'er enshrine : I could not hear thee sigh 
To the ^\^nd's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dim, silvery green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn of that 
scene 
When, in the garden, the Redeemer prayed — 
When pale stars looked upon his fainting head, 
And angels, ministering in silent dread, 

Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling 
shade. 



THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung. 
Felt shudderingly at noon : the land had 

driven 

A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven — 

A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung. 

All grace, all truth. And when, to anguish 

wrung. 

From the sharp cross th' enlightened spirit 

fled. 
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 
By the great shadow of that death was flung. 
Savior ! O Atoner ! — thou that fain 

Wouldst make thy temple in each human 
heart. 
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign ; 

Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart. 
Chased thence by guilt ! O, turn not Thou 

away. 
The bright and Morning Star, my Guide to per- 
fect day ! 



PLACES OF WORSHIP. 

" God 13 a spirit" 

Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills 

Air, ocean, central depths by man untried. 

Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified 

All place, all time ! The silence of the hills 

Breathes veneration — founts and choral rills 

Of tl ee are murmuring — to its inmost glade 



The living forest with thy whisper thriUs, 
And there is holiness in every shaae. 

Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes. 

Which, severed from all sound of earth's unrest 
Hear nought but suppliant or adoring strain. 

Rise heavenward. Ne'er may rock or cave prs- 
sess 

Their claim on human hearts to solemn tender- 
ness. 



OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK. 

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 

In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, 

Caressingly, about the holy ground, 

And warbled, with a never-dying tone, 

Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 

Seemed, from that ivied porch, that solemn 

gleam 
Of tower and cross, pele quivering on thf 
stream, 
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown — 
And something yet more deep. The air was 

fraught 
With noble memories, whispering many a 
thought 
Of England's fathers : loftily serene. 
They that had toiled, watched, struggled, to se- 
cure, 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure. 
Reigned there, the o'ershadowing spirit of the 



A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. 

Blessings be round it still ! that gleaming fane, 
Low in its mountain glen ! Old, mossy trees 

Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane ; 
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze. 
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, 

Filling the hollows with its anthem tone, 

There meets the voice of psalms ! Yet no' 
alone 
For memories luUing to the heart as these, 

I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, gray house of 
prayer ! 

But for their sakes who unto thee repair 
From the hill cabins and the ocean shore. 



1 Fawsley Park, near Daveiitry. 

2 That of Aber, near Bangor 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



666 



0, may the fisher and the mountaineer 
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, 
Within thy lowly walls, forevermore. 



LOUISE SCHEPLER. 

[liOU'SQ Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of 
the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his 
children, lor their perusal after his decease, alfectingly com- 
memorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing 
the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, 
and in all circumstances of difficuHy and danger ] 

A FEARLESS journeyer o'er the mountain snow 

"Wert thou, Louise ! The sun's decaying light 
Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow. 

Reddened thy steep, wild way: the starry 
night 

Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height, 
Piercing some dark ravine : and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock recesses, well 

Thy gentle presence, which hath made them 
bright 

Oft in mid storms — O, not with beauty's eye, 
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning ; 



No ! pilgrim of unwearying charity ! 
Thy spell was love — the mountain deserts turn- 
ing 
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving 



TO THE SAME. 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind. 

Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, 
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 

A wild, neglected flock ! to seek, and find. 

And meekly win ! there feeding each young mind 
With balms of heavenly eloquence : not thine, 
Daughter of Christ ! but His, whose love di' 
vine 

Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined. 

A burning light ! O, beautiful, in truth, 
Upon the mountains are the feet of those 

Who bear His tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 
For this were all thy journey ings ; and the 
close 

Of that long path. Heaven's own bright Sabbati 
rest. 

Must wait thee, wanderer ! on thy Savior's bre«8? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



ISE TWO MONUMENTS.' 

'O biesoed are they who live and die uke 'him,'^ 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned I " 

WOEDSWOBTH. 

Banners hung drooping from on high 

In a dim cathedral's nave. 
Making a gorgeous canopy 

O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

Ajid a marble warrior's form beneath. 
With helm and crest arrayed. 

As on his battle bed of death. 
Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet lingered in his eye, 
Ere by tht* dark night sealed ; 



1 Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer'» *' Note* and 
Reflections during a Ramble in Germany 
84 



And his head was pillowed haughtily 
On standard and on shield. 

And shadowing that proud trophy pil«, 
With the glory of his wing. 

An eagle sat — yet seemed the while 
Panting through heaven to spring 

He sat upon a shivered lance, 
There by the sculptor bound ; 

But in the light of his lifted glance 
Was that which scorned the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem-like h^ies, 
From a storied window poured. 

There fell, there centred, to suffuse 
The conqueror and his sword. 

A flood of hues — but onf rich dy© 
O'er all supremely spread. 



556 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


With a purple robe of royalty 




Mantling the mighty dead. 


THE COTTAGE GIRL. 




A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play, 


Meet was that robe for him whose name 


Her fair face laughing at the sunny day ; 


Wa« a trumpet note in war, 


A gush of waters tremulously bright, 


His pathway still the march of fame, 


Kindling the air to gladness with their light ; 


His eye the battle star. 


And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, 




Darkening the turf; and, shadowed o'er bj 


But faintly, tender]}' was thrown. 


these, 


From the colored light, one ray, 


A low, dim, woodland cottage — this was all ! 


Where a low and pale memorial stone 


What had the scene for memory to recall 


By the couch of glory lay. 


With a fond look of love ? What secret spell 




With the heart's pictures made its image dwell ? 


Few were the fond words chiselled there, 




Mourning for parted worth ; 


What, but the spirit of the joyous child. 


But the very heart of love and prayer 


That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure 


Had given their sweetness forth. 


smiled. 




Casting upon the common things of earth 


They spoke of one whose life had been 


A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth I 


As a hidden streamlet's course. 




Bearing on health and joy unseen 




From its clear mountain source ; 






THE BATTLE FIELD. 


Whose young, pure memory, lying deep 




'Midst rock, and wood, and hill. 


I LOOKED on the field where the battle waft 


Dwelt in the homes w^here poor men sleep,^ 


spread. 


A soft light, meek and still ; 


When thousands stood forth in their glancing 




array ; 


Whose gentle voice, too early called 


And the beam from the steel of the valiant was 


Unto Music's land away, 


shed 


Had won for God the earth's, inthralled 


Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'er- 


By words of silvery sway. 


shadowed the fray. 


These were his victories — yet, enrolled 


I saw the dark forest of lances appear, ' 


In no high song of fame. 


As the ears of the harvest unnumbered they 


The pastor of the mountain fold 


stood ; 


Left but to Heaven his name. 


I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, 




Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of 


To Heaven, and to the peasant's hearth, 


the wood. 


A bless6d household sound ; 




And finding lowly love on earth, 


Afar the harsh notes of the war drum were 


Enough enough he found ! 


rolled. 




Uprousing the wclf from the depth of his lair ; 


Bright and more bright before me gleamed 


On high to ""he gust stream'd the banner's red 


That sainted image still. 


fold, 


Till one sweet moonlight memory seemed 


O'er me death-close of hate, and the scowl 0/ 


The regal fane to fill. 


despair. 


0, how my silent spirit turned 


I looked on the field of contention again, 


From those proud trophies nigh ! 


When the sabre was sheathed and the tempest 


How my full heart within me burned 


had passed ; 


Like Rim to live and die ! 


The w^ild weed and thistle grew rank on the 




plain. 


» ' Love bad he seen in huts where poor men lie." 


And the fern softly sighed in the low, wailing 


Wordsworth. 


blast. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Aft? 



Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, 
And bright shone the stars through the sky's 

deey sned blue ; 
And sweetly the song of the night bird arose, 
Where the foxglove lay gemmed with its pearl- 
drops of dew. 

but wh i-ie swept the ranks of that dark, frown- 
ing host, 

As the ocean in nwght, as the storm cloud in 
speed ? 

\VTiere now are the thunders of victory's boast — 

The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of 
the steed ? 

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering 

stone, 
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their 

pride ; 
One grass- covered mound told the traveller 

alone 
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, 

and died ! 

J Glory ! behold thy famed guerdon's extent : 

For this, toil thy slaves through their earth- 
wasting lot — 

A name like the mist, when the night beams 
are spent ; 

A. grave with its tenants unwept and forgot ! 



A PENITENT'S RETURN. 

" Can guilt or njlsery ever enter here ? 
Ah, no 1 the spirit of domestic peace, 
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, 
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, 
Gtiards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, 
The hallowed porch. She hath a heavenly smile, 
That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, 
And wins him o'er to virtue." — Wilson. 

My father's house once more, 
fn its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around, 
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, 

Broods, never marked before ! 

Is it the brooding night, 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air. 
That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhelming to my sight ? 

All solemnized it seems. 
And stilled, and darkened in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 



And this high elm, where last 
I stood and lingered — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — I deemed not tha* it caa 

So far and dark a shade ! 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's pla3e "wu 

there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved hu 
hair ! 
Now those gray locks are gone I 

My soul grows faint with fear ! 
Even as if angel steps had marked the sod. 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful ? Faithlesi 

hearted ! 
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn, gladdening light ! 

No outward thing is changed : 
Only the joy of purity is fled, 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged, 

Thou hear'st their tones with dread. 

Therefore the calm abode 
By thy dark spirit is o'erhung with shade ; 
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of Gtx' 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The night flowers round that doui 
Still breathe pure fragrance on th' untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 

And must I turn away ? 
Hark, hark ! — it is my mother's voice I hear- 
Sadder than once it seemed — yet soft and clear 

Doth she not seem to pray ? 

My name ! ^- I caught the sound ! 
O, blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild I 
Mother ! my mother ! now receive thy cliild ; 

Take back the lost and found ! 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. 

" We receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does nature live; 
Ours is her wedfliiig garment, ours her shroTid; 
And, would we aught behold of higher worth 



1 

668 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Than that ir.animate, cold world allowed 


How might our passions brook 


To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, 
Ah. from the soul itself must issue forth 


The still and searching look, 


A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, 


The star-like glance of seraph purity ? 


Enveloping the earth ; 




And from the soul itself must there be sent 




A sweet and potent voice of its own birth. 


Thy golden-fruited grove 


Of all sweet sounds the life and element" — Coleeidoe. 


Was not for pining love ; 




Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies ! 


Green spot of holy ground ! 


0, thou wert but a part 


If thou couldst yet be found, 


Of what man's exiled heart 


Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers ; 


Hath lost — the dower of inborn paradise ! 


If not one sullying breath 




Of time, or change, or death, 




Had touched the vernal glory of thy bowers ; 




Might our tired pilgrim feet, 


LET US DEPART! 


Worn by the desert's heat, 




On the bright freshness of thy turf repose ? 


[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previ ju 
to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests 


Might our eyes wander there 


going by night into the inner court of the temple to per 


Through heaven's transparent air, 


form their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost 


And rest on colors of the immortal rose ? 


felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that 




a sound as of a great multitude saying, " Let us depai* 




hence ! "] 


Say, would thy balmy skies 




And fountain melodies 


Night hung on Salem's towers, 


Our heritage of lost delight restore ? 


And a brooding hush profound 


Could thy soft honey dews 


Lay where the Roman eagle shone 


Through all our veins diffuse 


High o'er the tents around — 


The early, childlike, trustful sleep once more ? 






The tents that rose by thousands. 


And might we, in the shade 


In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 


By thy tall cedars made. 


Like white waves of a frozen sea 


With angel voices high communion hold, 


Filling an Alpine vale. 


Would their sweet, solemn tone 




Give back the music gone. 


And the temple's massy shadow 


Our being's harmony, so jarred of old ? 


Fell broad, and dark, and still, 




In peace — as if the Holy One 


0, no ! — thy sunny hours 


Yet watched his chosen hill. 


Might come with blossom showers. 




All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might 


But a fearful sound was heard 


thriU; 


In that old fane's deepest heart, 


But we — should we not bring 


As if mighty wings rushed by, 


Into thy realms of spring 


And a dread voice raised the cry, i 


The shadows of our souls to haunt us stiU ? 


♦' Let us depart ! " 


What could thy flowers and airs 


Within the fated city 


Do for (Mir earth-born cares ? 


E'en then fierce discord raved, ! 


Would the world's chain melt off and leave us 


Though o'er night's heaven the comtt swora 


free? 


Its vengeful token waved. ♦ 


No ! — past each living stream, 




Still would some fever dream 


There were shouts of kindred warfare 


Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for 


Through the dark streets ringing high, 


thee! 


Though every sign was full which told 




Of the bloody vintage nigh ; 


Should we not shrink with fear 




If angel steps were near. 


Though the wild red spears and arrows 


Reeling our burdened souls within us die ? 


Of many a meteor host 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 669 


Went flashing o'er the holy stars, 


And upwards, through transparent darknesi 


Li the sky now seen, now lost. 


gleaming. 




Gazed in mute reverence woman's earnest eye 


Ind that fearful sound was heard 


Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming 


Li the temple's dearest heart, 


With quenchless faith, and deep love's fer- 


As if mighty wings rushed by, 


vency. 


And a voice cried mournfully, 


Gathering, like incense roxrnd some dim-veilod 


**L€tus depart!" 


shrine, 




About the form, so mournfully divine ! 


but within the fated city 




There was reveh-y that night — 


0, let thine image, as e'en then it rose. 


The wine cup and the timbrel note. 


Live in my soul forever, calm and clear. 


And the blaze of banquet light. 


Making itself a temple of repose, 




Beyond the breath of human hope or fear ! 


The footsteps of the dancer 


A holy place, where through all storms maj 


Went bounding through the hall. 


lie 


And the music of the dulcimer 


One living beam of dayspring from on higi^ 


Summoned to festival ; 


■ 


While the clash of brother weapons 





Made lightning in the air. 




And the dying at the palace gates 
Lay down in their despair ; 


COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. 




" Could we but keep our spirits to that height. 


And that fearful sound was heard 
At the teranle's thrilling heart, 


We might be happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal." — Byeon. 


As if mighty icings rushed by. 


Return, my thoughts — come home ! 


And a dread voice raised the cry, 


Ye wild and winged ! what do ye o'er the 


«' Let %8 depaH ! " 


deep ? 




And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep. 




As birds the ocean foam ? 




Swifter than shooting star. 


USa A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING 
THE CROSS. 


Swifter than lances of the northern light, 
Upspringing through the purple heaven of ni^ht, 
Hath been your course afar ! 


PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.' 


Through the bright battle clime, 


By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 


Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian 


Holiest of sufferers ! round thy path of woe. 


streams. 


And by the weight of mortal agony 


And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, 


Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek 


By temples of old time j 


brow. 




My heart was awed : the burden of thy pain 


Through the north's ancient halls. 


Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. 


Where banners thrilled of yore — where h&rp- 




strings rung ; 


I looked once more — and, as the virtue shed 


But grass waves now o'er those that fought and 


Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray 


sung — 


Of victory from thy mien ; and round thy head, 


Hearth Hght hath left their walls ! 


The halo, melting spirit-like away, 




Seemed of the very soul's bright rising born, 


Through forests old and dim. 


To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn. 


Where o'er the leaves dxead magic seems ti 




brood ; 


1 This picture is m the possession ol ti e Viscount Harbcr- 


And sometimes on the haunted solitude 


Vmi, Menion Square, Dublin. 

■ 


Rises the pilgrim's hymn; 



570 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Or where some fountain lies, 
With lotus cups through Orient spice woods 

gleaming ! 
rhere have ye been, ye wanderers ! idly dream- 
ing 
Of man's lost paradise ! 

Return, my thoughts — return ! 
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track, 
And voices, not of music, call you back — 

Harsh voices, cold and stern ! 

O, no ! return ye not ! 
Still farther, loftier, ^et your soarings be ! 
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright 
and free. 

O'er many a haunted spot. 

Go ! seek the martyr's grave, 
'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts 

vast ; 
Or, through the ruined cities of the past, 

Follow the wise and brave ! 

Go ! visit cell and shrine. 
Where woman hath endured ! — through wrong, 

through scorn, 
Uncheered by fame, yet silently upborne 

By promptings more divine ! 

Go, shoot the gulf of death ! 
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, 
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may 
find. 

Where the storm sends no breath ! 

Higher, and yet more high ! 
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth 

would lay 
On your victorious vrings — mount, mount ! 
Your way 
Is through eternity ! 



THE WATER LILY. 

"The water lilies, that are serene in the calm, clear water, but 
to lets serene among the black and scowling vhivqb" — Lights and 
Shadows of ScoUish Life. 

O, BEAUTIFUL thou art. 
Thou sculpture-like and stately river queen ! 
drowning the depths, as with- the light serene 

O^ % pure heart. 



Bright lily of the wave ! 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell ; 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free. 
Whether with foam or pictixred azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower, 
The gentle and the firm ! thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 

As to the shower ? 

O, love is most like thee, 
The love of woman ! quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast 

'Midst life's dark sea. 

And faith — O, is not faith 
Like thee, too, lily ! springing into light, 
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 

Through the storm's breath ? 

Yes ! linked with such high thought, 
Elower ! let thine image in my bosom lie ; 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought — 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 



THE SONG OF PENITENCE.* 

UNFINISHED. 

[We learn from the Rev. R, P. Graves, that " The Son§ 
of Penitence," if it had been finished in time, was intended 
for insertion among the " Scenes and Hymns of Life."] 

He passed from earth 
Without his fame — the calm, pure, starry fams 
He might have won, to guide on radiantly 
Full many a noble soul — he sought it not ; 
And e'en like brief and barren lightning passeii 
The wayward child of genius. And the songs 
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, 
Had showered forth recklessly, as ocean waves 



1 Suggested by the hite Mrs. Fletclier's sturj' of The Lou 
Life, published in the Amulet for 18.31). 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. «71 


Fliug up their treasures mingled with dark 


He lies not where his fathers sleep ; 


weed, 


But who hath a tomb more proud? 


They died before him ; they were wing6d seed 


For the Syrian wilds his record keep, 


Scattered afar, and, falling on the rock 


And a banner is his shroud. 


Of the world's heart, had perished. One alone. 




One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, 




The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, 




Survived tlie vainly gifted. In the souls 


THE ENGLISH BOY. 


Of the kiiid few that loved him, with a love 




Faithful to even its disappointed hope. 


" Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt 
They owe thair ancestors ; and make them swear 


That song of tears found root, and by their 


To pay it, by transmitting down entire 


hearths 


Those sacred rights to which themselves were born." 


Full oft, in low and reverential tones, 


AxEirsiDS 


■ Filled with the piety of tenderness, 


Look from the ancient mountains down, 


Is murmured to their children, when his name 


My noble English boy ! 


On some faint harpstring of remembrance 


Thy country's fields around thee gleam 


falls, 


In sunlight and in joy. 


Far from the world's rude voices, far away. 




0, hear, and judge him gently ; 'twas his last. 


Ages have rolled since foeman's march 




Passed o'er that old, firm sod ; 


I come alone, and faint I come — 


For well the land hath fealty held 


To Nature's arms I flee ; 


To freedom and to God ! 


The green woods take their wanderer home, 




But thou, Father ! may 1 turn to thee ? 


Gaze proudly on, my English boy ' 




And let thy kindUng mind 


The earliest odor of the flower. 


Drink in the spirit of high thought 


The bird's first song, is thine ; 


From every chainless wind ! 


Father in heaven ! my dayspring's hour 




Poured its vain incense on another shrine. 


There, in the shadow of old Time, 




The halls beneath thee lie 


Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene 


Which poured forth to the fields of yore 


Around me faded lies ; 


Our England's chivalry. 


Therefore, remembering what hath been, 




[ ask, Is this mine early paradise ? 


How bravely and how soienmly 




They stand, 'midst oak and yew » 


It ia, it is — but thou art gone ; 


Whence Cressy's yeoman haply framed 


Or if the trembling shade 


The bow, in battle true. 


Breathe yet of thee, with altered tone 




riiy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismayed. 


And round their walls the good swords hang 


. 


Whose faith knew no alloy. 




And shields of knighthood, pure from stain 




Gaze on, my English boy ! 




Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 


TROUBADOUR SONG. 


Gleams by the antique elm, 




Or where the minster lifts the cross 


Thet reared no trophy o'er his grave, 


High through the air's blue realm. 


They bade no requiem flow ; 


' 


What left they there to tell the brave 


Martyrs have showered their free heart's blcxx 


That a warrior aTeeps below ? 


That England's prayer might rise, 




From those gray fanes of thoughtful years 


A. shivered spear, a cloven shield, 


Unfettered, to the skies. 


A nelm with its white plume torn, 




and a blood-stained turf oi the fatal field. 


Along their aisles, beneath their trees. 


WTiere a chief to his rest was borne. 


This earth's most glorious dust. 



in 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Once fired with valor, -wisdom, song, 
Is laid in holy trust. 

Gaze on — gaze farther, farther yet — 

My gallant English boy ! 
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag, 

The billows' pride and joy ! 

Those waves in many a fight have closed 

Above her faithful dead ; 
That red-cross flag victoriously 

Hath floated o'er their bed. 

They perished — this green turf to keep 

By hostile tread unstained. 
These knightly halls inviolate, 

Those churches unprofaned. 

And high and clear their memory's light 

Along our shore is set, 
And many an answering beacon fire 

Shall there be kindled yet ! 

Lift up thy heart, my English boy. 
And pray, Hke them to stand, 

Should God so summon thee^ to guard 
The altars of the land. 



TO THE BLUE ANEMONE. 

Floweb of starry clearness bright ! 
Quivering urn of colored light ! 
Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye 
From the intenseness of the sky ? 
From a long, long fervent gaze 
Through the year's first golden days, 
Up that blue and silent deep. 
Where, like things of sculptured sleep, 
Alabaster clouds repose. 
With the sunshine on their snows ? 
Thither was thy heart's love turning, 
Like a censer ever burning. 
Till the purple heavens in thee 
Set their smile. Anemone ^ 

Or can those warm tints be caught 
Each from some quick glow of thought ? 
So much of bright soul there seems 
In thy bondings and thy gleams. 
So much thy sweet life resembles 
That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, 
I could deem thee spirit-filled, 
As a reed by music thrilled, 



When thy being I behold 
To each loving breath unfold, 
Or, like woman's willowy form. 
Shrink from the gathering storm \ 
I could ask a voice from thee, 
Delicate Anemone ! 

Flower ! thou seem'st not bom to die 
With thy radiant purity. 
But to melt in air away, 
Mingling with the soft spring day, 
When the crystal heavens are still, 
And faint azure veils each hill. 
And the lime leaf doth not move. 
Save to songs that stir the grove, 
And earth all glorified is ?een, 
As imaged in some lake serene ; 
— Then thy vanishing should be« 
Pure and meek Anemone ! 

Flower ! the laurel still may shed 
Brightness round the victor's head ; 
And the rose in beauty's hair 
Still its festal glory wear ; 
And the willow leaves drop o'er 
Brows which love sustains no more : 
But by living rays refined. 
Thou, the trembler of the wind. 
Thou the spiritual flower. 
Sentient of each bi^eze and shoxver, 
Thou, rejoicing in the skies. 
And transpierced with all their dyes ; 
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowin^. 
Gem-like to thy centre glowing. 
Thou the poet's t)^e shalt be. 
Flower of soul. Anemone I 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM 
GOETHE. 

SCENES FROM ««TASSO.'= 

The dramatic poem of " Tasso," though pfe- 
senting no changeful pageants of many-colored 
life, — no combination of stirring incidents, not 
conflict of tempestuous passions, — is yet rich in 
interest for those who find 

" The still, sad music of humanity 

of ample power 

To chasten and subdue." 

It is a picture of the struggle between ele- 
ments which never can assimilate — poweri 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 



673 



iv-hose dominion is over spheres essentially 
adverse ; between the spirit of poetry and the 
spirit of the world. Why is it that this col- 
lision is almost invariably fatal to the gentler 
and the holier nature : Some master minds 
have, indeed, winged their way through the 
tumults of crowded life, like the sea bird cleav- 
ing the storm from which its pinions come forth 
unstained ; but there needs a celestial panoply, 
with which few indeed are gifted, to bear the 
heirs of genius not only unwounded, but un- 
'Soiled, through the battle ; and too frequently 
the result of the poet's lingering afar from his 
better home has been mental degradation and 
untimely death. Let us not be understood as 
requiring for his well being an absolute seclusion 
from the world and its interests. His nature, if 
the abiding-place of the true light be indeed 
within him, is endowed above all others with 
the tenderest and most widely- embracing sym- 
pathies. Not alone from "the things of the 
everlasting hills," from the storms or the silence 
of midnight skies, will he seek the grandeur 
and the beauty which have their central resi- 
dence in a far more majestic temple. Moun- 
tains, and rivers, and mighty woods, the cathe- 
drals of nature — these will have their part in 
his pictures ; but tbeir coloring and shadows 
will not be wholly the gift of rising or departed 
suns, nor of the night with all her stars ; it will 
be a varying suffusion from the life within, from 
the glowing clouds of thought and feeling, 
which mantle with theii changeful drapery all 
external creation. 

" We receive but what we give. 

And in our life alone does nature live." 

Let the poet bear into the recesses of woods 
and shadowy hills a heart full fraught with the 
sympathies which will have been fostered by in- 
tercourse with his kind — a memory covered 
with the secret inscriptions which joy and sor- 
row fail not indelibly to write : then will the 
voice of every stream respond to him in tones 
of gladness or melancholy, accordant with those 
of his own soul ; and he himself, by the might 
of feelings intensely human, may breathe the 
Jiving spirit of the oracle into the resounding 
cavern or the whispering oak. We thus admit 
it essential to his high office, that the chambers 
of imagery in the heart of the poet must be 
filled with materials moulded from the sorrows, 
the affections, the fiery trials, and immortal 
lOngings of the human soul. Where love, and 
'^Rith, and anguish meet ar. i contend, — where 
86 



the tones of prayer are wrung from the suffering 
spirit, — there lie his veins of treasure ; there are 
the sweet waters ready to flow from the stricken 
rock. But he will not seek them through the 
gaudy and hurrying mask of artificial life ; he 
will not be the fettered Samson to make sport 
for the sons and daughters of fashion. Whilst 
he shuns no brotherly communion with his 
kind, he will ever reserve to his nature tlic 
power of se^f- communion — silent hours for 

" The harvest of the quiet eye 
That broods and sleeps on his own heart, 

and inviolate retreats in the depths of his being 
— fountains lone and still, upon which only tht, 
eye of Heaven shines down in its hallowed 
serenity. So have those who make us " heirs 
of truth and freedom by immortal lays " ever 
reserved the calm, intellectual ether in which 
they live and move from the taint of worldly 
infection ; and it appears the object of Goethe, 
in the work before us, to make the gifted spirit 
sadder and wiser by the contemplation of onu. 
which, having sold its birthright, and stooped 
from its " privacy of glorious light," is forced 
into perpetual contact with things essentially 
of the earth, earthy. Dante has spoken of what 
the Italian poets must have learned but too 
feelingly under their protecting princes — the 
bitter taste of another's bread, the weary steps 
by which the stairs of another's house are as- 
cended ; but it is suffering of a more spiritual 
nature which is here portrayed. Would that 
the courtly patronage, at the shrine of which 
the Italian muse has so often waved her censer, 
had imposed no severer tasks upon its votaries 
than the fashioning of the snow statue which it 
required from the genius of Michael Angelo ! 
The story of Tasso is fraught with j'et deeper 
meaning, though it is not from the period of 
his most agonizing trials that the materials of 
Goethe's work are drawn. The poet is here in- 
troduced to us as a youth at the court of Fer- 
rara ; visionary, enthusiastic, keenly alive to the 
splendor of the gorgeous world around him, 
throwing himself passionately upon the current 
of every newly-excited feeling ; a creature of 
sudden lights and shadows, of restless strivings 
after ideal perfection, of exultations and of 
agonies. Why is it that the being thus ex- 
hibited as endowed with all these trembling 
capacities for joy and pain, with noble aspira- 
tions and fervid eloquence, fails to excite a more 
reverential interest, a more tender admiration ? 
He is wanting in dignity, in the sustaining con- 



674 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Bciousness of his own high mission ; ho has no 
jity of refuge within himself, and thus 

" Every little living nerve, 
Tliat from bitter words doth swerve," 

has the ])Ower to shake his whole soul from its 
pride of place. He is thus borne down by the 
cold, tiliiinphant worldliness of the courtier An- 
tonio, from the collision with whom, and the 
mistaken endeavor of Tasso's friends to recon- 
cile natures dissimilar as the sylph and gnome 
it fanciful creations, the conflicting elements of 
the piece are chiefly derived. There are im- 
pressive lessons to be drawn from the contem- 
plation of these scenes, though, perhaps, it is 
not quite thus that we could have wished him 
delineated who ♦• poured his spirit over Pales- 
tine ; " and it is occasionally almost too painful 
to behold tht; high-minded Tasso, recognized by 
his country us siq^erior icith the sword and thepen 
to all men, struggling in so ignoble an arena, 
and finally overpowered by so unworthy an an- 
tagonist. This world is indeed '• too much mth 
us " and but too powerful is often its withering 
breath upon the ethereal natures of love, devo- 
tion, and enthusiasm, which, in other regions, 

" May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil." 

Yet who has not known victorious moments, in 
which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have 
quailed — the conventional forms of life have 
shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel 
touch of some generous feeling, some high and 
overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from 
the inmost recesses of the folded soul, and 
striking the electric chain which mysteriously 
connects all h^^^raanity ? We could have wished 
that some such *hrilling moment had been here 
introduced by the mighty master of Germany — 
something to relieve the too continuous impres- 
sion of inherent weakness in the cause of the 
vanquished — something of a transmuting power 
in the soul of Tasso, to glorify the clouds which 
»ccumulate around it — to turn them into " con- 
tir gencies of pomp " by the interpenctration 
o< ts own celestial light. Yet we approach 
with reverence the work of a noble hand ; and, 
whilst entering upon our task of translation, we 
ackrowlcdge, in humility, the feebleness of all 
endeavor to pour into the vase of another lan- 
guage the exquisitely subtile spirit of Goethe's 
poetry — to transplant and naturalize the deli- 
cate felicities of thought and expression by 
which this piece is so eminently distinguished. 
The visional y rapture which take& possession 



of Tasso upon being crowned with laurel Dj 
the Princess Leonora d'Este, the object of an 
affection which the j'outhful poet has scarcely 
yet acknowledged to himself, is thus portrayed 
in one cf the earlier scenes : — 

•' Let me then bear the burden of my bliss 

To some deep grove that oft hath veiled vn\ 

grief; 
There let me roam in solitude : no eye 
Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. 
And if some shining fountain suddenly 
On its clear mirror to my sight should give 
The form of one who, strangely, brightly 

crowned. 
Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, 
As it streams down through rocks and parted 

trees. 
Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave 
I see Elysium pictured ! I will ask 
Who is the blessed departed one — the youth 
From long past ages with his glorious wreath ? 
Who shall reveal his name ? — who speak hii 

Avorth ? 
O that another and another there 
flight press, with him to hold bright com- 
muning ! 
Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs 
Of the old time on that pure fountain side, 
Porevermore inseparably linked 
As they were linked in life ! Not steel to steel 
Is bound more closely by the magnet's power 
Than the same striving after lofty things 
Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer's life 
Was self-forgetfulness — he poured it forth, 
One rich libation to another's fame ; 
And Alexander through th' Elysian grove 
To seek Achilles and his poet flies. 
Might I behold their meeting ! " 

But he is a reed shaken with the wind. An- 
tonio reaches the court of Ferrara at this crisis, 
in all the importance of a successful negotiation 
with the Vatican. He strikes down the -vvirg 
of the poet's delicate imagination with the ar- 
rows of a careless irony, and Tasso is for a time 
completely dazzled and overpowered by the 
worldly science of the skilful diplomatist. The 
deeper wisdom of his own simplicity is yet 
veiled from his eyes. Life seems to pass before 
him, as portrayed by tlie discourse of AntoniOj 
like a mighty triumphal procession, in the ex- 
ulting movements and clarion sounds of which 
he alone has no share ; and at last the forms ol 
beauty, peopling his own spiritual world, seem 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 



87ft 



10 dissolve into clouds, even into faint shadows 
of clouds, before the strong glare of the external 
world, leaving his imagination as a desolate 
iiouse, whence light and music have departed. 
He thus pours forth, when alone with the 
Princess Leonora, the impressions produced 
upon hint, by Antonio's descriptions : — 

They still disturb my heart — 
Stall u:- they crowd my soul tumultiiously — 
The troubling images of that vast world, 
Wliich - - living, restless, fearful as it is — 
Yet, at the bidding of one master mind. 
E'en as commanded by a demig'od, 
Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, 
Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in 
The strong words of the experienced ; but alas ! 
The more I listened, still the more I sank 
In mine own eyes ; I seemed to die away 
As into some faint echo of the rocks — 
A shadowy sound — a nothing ! 

There is something of a very touching beauty 
In the character of the Princess Leonora d'Este. 
She does not, indeed, resemble some of the 
lovely beings delineated by Shakspeare — the 
females, •♦ graceful without design, and unfore- 
seeing," in whom, even under the pressure of 
heaviest calamity, it is easy to discern the exist- 
ence of the sunny and gladsome nature which 
would spring up with fawn-like buoyancy were 
but the crushing vc'gat withdrawn. The spirit 
of Leonora has b^cv a^. once elevated and sub- 
dued by early trial : high thoughts, like mes- 
bcngers from Heaven, have been its visitants in 
the solitude of the sick chamber ; and looking 
upon life and creation, as it were, through the 
softening veil of remembered suffering, it has 
settled into such majestic loveliness as the Ital- 
ian painters delight to shadow forth on the calm 
brow of their Madonna. Its very tenderness is 
Belf- resignation ; its inner existence serene, yet 
Bad — *' a being breathing thoughtful breath." 
She Ls worshipped by the poet as his tutelary 
angel, and her secret affection for him might 
almost become that character. It has all the 
deep devotedness of a woman's heart, with the 
still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no 
part in the passionate dreams of earthly happi- 
ness. She feels his genius with a reverential 
appreciation ; she watches over it with a reli- 
gious tenderness, forever interposing to screen 
its unfolding powers fiom every ruder breath. 
8ho rejoice s in his presence as a flower filling its 
«uj with g ladness from the morning light ; yet. 



preferring his well being to all earthly thin.jei, 
she would meekly offer up, for the knowledge 
of his distant happiness, even the fulness of thai 
only and unuttei'able joy. A deep feeling o^ 
woman's lot on earth — the lot of endurance 
and of sacrifice — seems ever present to her soul, 
and speaks characteristically in these lines, n-itii 
Avhich she replies to a wish of Tasso's for 'ho 
return of the golden age : — 

When earth lias men to reverence female riean.^, 
To know the treasure of rich truth and love. 
Set deep within a high-souled woman's breast , 
When the remembrance of our summer prime 
Keeps brightly in man's heart a holy place ; 
When the keen glance that pierces through «<"r 

much 
Looks also tenderly through that dim veil 
By time or sickness hung round drooping forms : 
When the possession, stilling every wish. 
Draws not desire away to other wealth — 
A brighter dayspring then for us may dawn. 
Then may ive solemnize our golden age. 

A character thus meditative, affectionate, and 
self-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly 
sensitive to the secret intimations of coming 
sorrow. Forebodings of evil arise in her mind 
from the antipathy so apparent^ between Tassc 
and Antonio ; and, after learning that the cold, 
keen irony of the latter has irritated the poet 
almost to frenzy, she thus, to her friend Leonora 
de Sanvitale, reproaches herself for not having 
listened to the monitory whispers of her soul • 

Alas ! that we so slowly learn to heed 
The secret signs and omens of the breast ! 
An oracle speaks low within our hearts — 
Low, still, yet clear, its prophet voice forewarns 
What to pursue, what shun. 

Yes ! my whole soul misgave me silently 
When he and Tasso met. 

She admits to her friend the necessity for luji 
departure from Ferrara ; but thus reverts, witk 
fondly-clinging remembrance, to the time wher 
he first became known to her : — 

O, marked and singled was the hour when firs 
He met mine eye ! Sickness and grief just thei 
Had passed away : from long, long suffering freed. 
I lifted up my brow, and silently 
Gazed upon life again. The sunny day. 
The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light 



Of gladness rouna me, and my freshened lieart 
Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. 
Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared 
To send my glance, and many a kind, bright 

shape 
There beckoned from afar. Then first the youth, 
Led by a sister's hand, before me stood, 
And my soul clung to him e'en then, O friend ! 
fo cling f.revermore. 
/ 80. Lament it not, 
Mj princess ! — to have known Heaven's gifted 

ones 
Is to have gathered into the full soul 
Inalienable wealth ! 

PHn. precious things ! 
The richly graced, the exquisite, are things 
To fear, to love with trembling ! Beautiful 
Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines. 
When in the friendly torch it gives thee light, 
How gracious and how calm ! — but, once un- 
chained, 
Lo ! ruin sweeps along its fatal path ! 

She then announces her determination to make 
the sacrifice of his society, in which alone her 
being seems to find its full completion. 

I Alas, dear friend ! my soul indeed is fixed — 
1 Let him depart ! Yet cannot I but feel 
] Even now the sadness of long days to come — 
The cold void left me by a lost delight ! 
No more shall sunrise from rsxy opening eye 
Chase his bright image glorified in dreams ; 
Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir 
With joyous flutterings my scarce-wakened 

soul ; 
And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, 
Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look 
Shall seek his form ! How blissful was the 

thought 
With him to share each golden evening's peace ! 
How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read 
His spirit yet more deeply ! Day by day 
H i>v my own being, tuned to happiness, 
Qav* forth a voice of nnor harmony ! — 
N^w is the twilight gloom around me fallen : 
Tlie festal day, the sun's magnificence, 
All riches of this many-colored Avorld, 
What are they now ? — dim, soulless, desolate ! 
Veiled in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. 
Once was each day a life ! — each care was miite, 
Even the low boding hushed within the soul ; 
And the smooth Avaters of a gliding stream, 
Without the rudder's aid, bore lightly on 
' ur fairy bark of joy ! 



Her companion endeavors, but in vain, to con 
sole her. 

Leon. If the kind words of friendship canno 
soothe. 
The still, sweet influences of this fair world 
Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace. 

Prin. Yes ! beautiful it is, the glowing world ! 
So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro 
In all its paths, and ever, ever seems 
One step, but one, removed ; till our fond thirst 
For the still fading fountain, step by step. 
Lures to the grave ! So seldom do we find 
What seemed by nature moulded for our love. 
And for our bliss endowed — or, if we find, 
So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold ! 
That which once freely made itself our own 
Burts from us ! — that which eagerly we pressed 
We coldly loose ! A treasure may be ours. 
Only we know it not, or know, perchance, 
Unconscious of its worth ! 

But the dark clouds are gathering within the 
spirit of Tasso itself, and the devotedness of af- 
fection would in vain avert their lightnings b}' 
the sacrifice of all its own pure enjoyments. In 
the solitary confinement to which the duke has 
sentenced him, as a punishment for his duel 
with Antonio, his jealous imagination, like that 
of the seK-torturing Rousseau, pictures the 
whole world as arrayed in one conspiracy against 
him, and he doubts even of her truth and gen- 
tleness whose w^atching thoughts are all for 
his welfare. The following, passages affectingly 
mark the progress of the dark despondency 
which finally overwhelms him, though the con- 
cluding lines of the last are brightened by a ray 
of those immortal hopes, the light of which wa 
could have desired to recognize more frequentlv 
in this deeply-thoughtful work. 

PRESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN. 

Alas ! too well I feel, too true a voice 
Within me whispers, that the mighty Power 
Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, 
Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast 
Mine to the earth — will rend me utterly ! — 
I must away ! 

ON A. FUIENP'S DECLAUINO HERSELF UNABLE 1u 
RECOGNIZE HIM. 

Rightly thou speak'st — I am myself no more ; 
And yet in worth not less than I have been. 
Seems this a dark, strange riddle ? Yet, 'tis none ! 
The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night — 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 



riiine eye, thy spirit irresistibly 

Winning with beams of love ! — mark ! how it 

floats 
Through the day's glare, a pale and powerless 

cloud ! 
[ am o'ercome by the full blaze of noon ; 
Ye know me, and I know myself no more ! 

ON EEIXa ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COM- 
POSITION. 

Vainly, too vainly, 'gainst the powei I strive. 
Which, night and day, comes rushing through 

my soul ! 
Without that pouring forth of thought and song 
My life is life no more ! 
Wi't thou forbid the silkworm to spin on. 
When hourly, with the labored line, he draws 
Nearer to death ? In vain ! — the costlj'- v.eb 
Must from his inmost being still be wrought, 
Till he lies wrapped in his consummate shroud. 
O that, a gracious God to us may give 
The lot of that blessed worm ! — to spread free 

wings, 
And burst exultingly on brighter life, 
In a new realm of sunshine ! 

He is at last released, and admitted into the 
presence of the Princess Leonora, to take his 
leave of her before commencing a distant journey. 
Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her in- 
terest in him, he is overcome by the pitying ten- 
derness of her manner, and breaks into a strain 
of passionate gratitude and enthusiasm : — 

Thou art the same pure angel as when first 
Thy radiance crossed my path ! Forgive, forgive, 
If for a moment, in his blind despair, 
The mortal's troubled glance hath read thee 

wrong ! 
Once more he knows thee ! His expanding soul 
Flows forth to worship thee forevermore, 
And his full heart dissolves in tenderness. 

Is it false light which draws me on to thee ? 
Is it delirium ? Is it thought inspired. 
And grasping first high truth divinely clear ? 
Yes ! 'tis even so — the feeling which alone 
Can make me blessed on earth ! 

The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his 
gentle protectress from him ; ho is forsaken by 
all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and, being 
l/"ft alone to the insulting pity of Antonio, his 
strength of h -^art is utterly subdued : he passion- 
ttely bewails Vis weakness, and even casts down 



his spirit almost in Avondcring admiration befor* j 
the calm self-coUectedness of his enemy, vfhK. 
himself seems at last almost melted by the ex- 
tremity of the poet's desolation, as thus poured 
forth : — 

Can I then image no high-hearted man 
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpassed mini' 

own, 
That my vev^d soul might win sustainii^ powet 
From thoug.ivH of him ? I cannot ! — all is lost J 
One thing alone remains, one mournful boon * 
Nature on us, her sufi"ering children, showers 
The gift of tears — the impassioned cry of grie^ 
When man can bear no more ; — and with my 

woe. 
With mine above all others, hath been linked 
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour 
All, all its fulness forth ! To me a God 
Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, 
When others, in their deep despair, are mute J 

Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man I 
I seem before thee as the troubled wave : 
But O, be thoughtful ! — in thy lofty strength 
Exult thou not ! By nature's might alike 
That rock was fixed, that quivering wave wai 

made 
The sensitive of storm ! She sends her blasts — 
The living water flies — it quakes and swells, 
And bows down tremblingly with breaking 

foam ; 
Y'et once that mirror gave the bright sun back 
In calm transparence — once the gentle stars 
Lay still upon its undulating breast ! 
Now the sweet peace is gone — the glory now- 
Departed from the wave ! I know myself 
No more in these dark perils, and no more 
I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark 
Is wrenched the rudder, and through all it* 

frame 
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my fee' 
The rocking earth gives way — to thee I cling - 
I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despaii 
So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock 
Whereon he perishes ! 

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama 
the catastrophe b(!ingthat of the spiritual wroi4 
within, unmingied with the terrors drawn frOD 
outward circumstances and 'change. The ma 
jcstic lines in which Byron has embodied th« 
thoughts of the captive Tasso will form a fine 
contrast and relief to the music of despair witft 
which Goethe's work is closed : — 



678 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



"AH this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 

For I have baffled with mine agony, 

And made me wings wherewith to over^^ 

The narrow ciix-us of my dungeon wall 

And fref d the Holy Sepulchre from thi-all ; 

A.n;j revelled among men and things divine, 

A.n.d poured my spirit over Palestine, 

-. ; honor of the sacred war for Him, 

I -e God who was on earth and is in heaven ; 

h r he hath strengthened me in heart and limb. 

I !.at tlirough this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I oave employed my penance to record 

H w Salem's shrine was won, and how adored." 



SCENES FROM " IPHIGENIA." 

A FEAGMENT. 

There is a charm of antique grace, of the ma- 
■ ftfctic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, 
iM»out the whole of this composition, which in- 
» .mes us to rank it as among the most consum- 
• ate works of art ever achieved by the master 
J md of its author. The perfection of its design 
I iid finish is analogous to that of a Grecian 
l»mple, seen as the crown of some old classic 
] night, with all its pure outlines — all the delicate 
J loportionS of its airy pillars — brought into bold 
ft lief by the golden sunshine, and against the 
Miclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete 
v> ithin itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also 

< the mind and eye of the beholder ; they are 
Tiled, and desire no more — they even feel that 
If.ore would be but encumbrance upon the fine 
adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting 
' i e graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to 
■* -ir der through infinity, such as are excited by 
( Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles 
striving upward, like the free but still baffled 
ii.ought of the architect — the clustering pillars 
ttr.d high arches imitating the bold combinations 
'>f mysterious forests — the many-branching cells, 
to d long visionary aisles, of which waving torch- 

ight or uncertain glimpses of the moon seem the 
fittest illumination — ever suggest ideas of some 
'•onception in the originally moulding mind, far 
TTjorc vast than the means allotted to human 
.-.ccomplishment — t)f struggling endeavor, and 
j)Hinfully submitted will. Akin to the spirit of 
Huch creations is that of the awful but irregular 
Kaust, and other wtrks of Goethe, in which the 

-stless questioning the lofty aspirations, and 



dark misgivings of the human soul a-^ Tierpetu* 
ally called up to " come like shadows, jw> depart," 
across the stormy splendors of the setnf ; and 
the mind is engaged in ceaseless confli''/ with 
the interminable mysteries of life. It is o'^ber- 
wise with the work before us : overshadowed, M 
it were, by the dark wings of the inflexible D<*8- 
tiny which hovers above the children of Tantalu«,i 
the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well m 
of the reader, here moves acquiescently within 
the prescribed circle of events, and is seldnua 
tempted beyond, to plunge into the abyss oi 
general speculations upon the lot of humaidty 



JOY OF FYLVDES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE 
LANGUAGE. 

sweetest voice "! O blessed familiar sound 
Of mother words heard in the stranger's land ! 

1 see the blue hills of my native shore, 
The far blue hills again ! those cordial tonefi 
Before the ^aptive bid them freshly rise 
Forever welcome ! O, by this deep joy. 
Know the true son of Greece ! 



EXCLAMATIONS OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEING HBB 
BROTHER. 

O, hear me ! look upon me ! How my heart, 
After long desolation, now unfolds 
Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head. 
Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth ! 
To clasp thee with my arms, which were but 

thrown 
On the void winds before ! O, give me way ! 
Give my soul's rapture way ! The eternal fount 
Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff to cliif 
Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale. 
Than the strong joy bursts gushing from my 

heart. 
And swells around me to a flood of bhss — 
Orestes ! — O my brother ! 



LOT OF MAX AND WOMAN COMPARED BY IPkUQKXiA. 

Man by the battle's hour immortalized 
^lay fall, yet leave his name to living song ; 
But of forsaken woman's countless tears, 
What recks the after world ? The poet's voice 
Tells nought of all the slow, sad, weary days, 
And long, long nights, through which the lorielj 

soul 
Poured itself forth, consumed itself away. 
In passionate adjurings, vain des'res. 



RECUllDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



67i 



A.iid ceaseless weepings for the early lost, 
The lof cd and vanished ! 



LONQINO OF ORESTES FOR REPOSE. 

One draught from Lethe's flood! — reach me 

one draught, 
One last cool goblet filled with dewy peace ! 
Soon will the spasm of life departing leave 
My bosom free ! Soon shall my spirit flow 
Along the deep waves of forgctfulness. 
Calmly and silently, away to you, 
Ye dead ! Ye dwellers of t)ie eternal cloud, 
Take home the son of earth, and let him steep 
His o'erworn senses in your dim repose 
Forevermore. 



CONTINUATION OF ORESTES' SOLILOQUY. 

Hark ! in the trembling leaves 
Mysterious whispers : hark ! a rushing sound 
Sweeps through yon twilight depth ! — e'en now 

they come, 
Xhey throng to greet their guest ! And who are 

they 
Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, 
As a king's children gathered for the hour 
Of some high festival ? Exultingly, 
And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass — 
The glorious, wandering shapes! aged and young, 
Proud men and royal women ! Lo ! my race — 
My sire's ancestral race I 



EECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 

1834. 

1 1 h(>te sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and 
lune, were intended, topether with the Records of the Au- 
tumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled 
* S^j nets, Devotional and Memorial."] 

A VERNAL THOUGHT. 

) FESTiL Spring ! 'midst thy victorious glow. 
Far &i reading o'er the kindled woods and plains, 
AJid streams, that bound to meet thee from 

their chains, 
Wei! might there lurk the shadow of a woe 
For 1 uman hearts, and in the exulting flow 
Of t]\y rich songs a melancholy tone, 
WeTe we of mould all earthly — toe alone, 
*»evfcred from thy great spell, and doomed to go 



Farther, still farther, from our sunny tims. 
Never to feci the breathings of our prime, 
Never to flower again ! Eut we, O Spring ! 
Cheered by deep spirit whispers not of eanh, 
Press to the regions of thy heavenly biith, 
As here thy flowers and birds press or Ui t iooir, 
and sing. 



TO THE SKY. 

Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough, 
Which o'er my opening life wild music made. 
Far from the green hills with their heathery 

glow 
And flashing streams whereby my childhood 

played, 
In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow 
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn, 
O thou rich Sky ! and from thy splendors learn 
How song birds come and part, flowers wan? 

and blow. 
With thee all shapes of glory find their home 
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome 
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rovB 
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, 
That Nature's God hath left 7io spot unblessed 
tVith founts of beauty for the eye of love ' 



ON RECORDS OF IM^^IATURE GENIUS.' 

O, JUDGE in thoughtful tenderness of those 
Who, richly dowered for life, are called to die 
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won 

repose 
In truth's divinest ether, still and high ! 
Let their minds' riches claim a trustful sigh I 
Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, 
First notes of some yet struggling harmony. 
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain 
Of many inspirations met, and held 
From its true sphere — O, soon it might hav» 

swelled 
Majestically forth ! Nor doubt that He, 
Whose touch mysterious jnay on earth dissolve 
Those links of music, elsewhere wiJl evolve 
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion 

gusts made free ! 



1 Written after reading some ol llie earner poems oi tOt 
late Mrs. Tighe, which had been lent Ijer in raaim^cript 



690 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A 
SKYLARK. 

Upward and upward still ! — in pearly light 
the clouds are steeped ! the vernal spirit sighs 
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies 
Woo thee, O bird, to thy celestial height. 
oLd, piercing heaven with music ! thy free 

flight 
Hath meaning for all bosoms ; most of all 
For those wherein the rapture and the might 
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn 
For their high place. O heirs of genius ! learn 
From the sky's bird your way ! No joy may fill 
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won 
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun ! 
S.ive by the unswerving flight, upward and 

upward stiU ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE SEA. 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound. 
Thy solemn shores, thou ever- chanting main ! 
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought pro- 
found 
In my lone being, made thy restless plain 
As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane, 
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, blue deep ! 
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, 
Never to thee did love with silvery chain 
Draw my soul's dream, which through all 

nature sought 
What waves deny — some bower of steadfast 

bliss, 
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, 
As with sweet flowers. But chastened hope for 

this 
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from 

thee, 
To that sole changeless world, where " there is 
no more sea." 



DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT 
EVENING. 

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale, 

Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard. 

Thy swell, thou deep ! when evening calls the 

bird 
And bee to rest ; when summer tints grow pale, 
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil ; 



And peasant steps are hastening to repose, 
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower cup* 

close 
To the last whisper of the falling gale. 
Then 'midst the dying of all other sound. 
When the soul hears thy distant voice profoundj 
Lone worshipping, and knows that through tl\« 

night 
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone 
Speaks to our being of the eternal One, 
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering 

miaht. 



THE RIVER CLWYD, IN NORTH WALES 

O Cambrian river ! with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruined towers ; 
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding ; 
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of 

flowers ; 
Long flowed the current of my life's clear houri 
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my 

dream. 
Though time, and change, and other mightiei 

powers 
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth 

stream ! 
Art winding still thy sunny meads along 
Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song. 
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hatl 

passed 
Through rocks and storms ; yet will I not v«m- 

plain. 
If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly gtain, 
Brightly its waves may reach their parent dec^; 

at last. 



ORCHARD BLOSSOMS. 

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight 
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough r 
Doth their sweet household smile waft back tin 

glow 
Of childhood's mom — the wondermg, frc^^h de- 

light 
In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright. 
A joy of fairyland ? Doth some old nook, 
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book. 
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streaked blossonr 

white 
Showered o'er the turf, and the lone primros* 

knot. 
And robin's nest, still faithfvd. to the spot. 



■"l 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



fAi 



And the bee's dreary chime ? O gentle friend ! 
The "world's cold breath, not time's, this life 

bereaves 
Of vernal gifts : Time hallows what he leaves, 
And will for us endear spring memories to the 

end. Sth May. 



TO A DISTANT SCENE. 

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 
O far-off, grassy dell ? — and dost thou see. 
When southern wands first wake their vernal 

singing. 
The star gleam of the wood anemone ? 
Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet ? the bee 
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell 
To their wild blooms ? and, round my beechen 

tree, 
Still, in green softness, doth the moss bank swell ? 
O strange illusion ! by the fond heart wrought. 
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face ! 

My being's tide of many-colored thought 
Hath passed from thee ; and now, rich, leafy 

place ! 
[ paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, 
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadowed by what hath 

been. 



A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. 

VALE and lake, within your mountain urn 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ! 
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, 
Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float 
On golden clouds from spirit lands remote, 
Isles of the blest, and in our memory keep 
Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, 
Most loved by evening and her dewy star ! 
0, ne'er may man, with touch unhallowed, jar 
The perfect music of thy charm serene ! 
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, 
and prayer. 



IHGUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. 

Trees, gracious trees ! — how rich a gift ye are, 
•>own of the earth ! to human hearts and eyes ! 

8a 



How doth the thought of home, in lands afar. 
Linked with your forms and kindly whisperii gi 

rise ! 
How the whole picture of a childhood lies 
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep ! 
Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, 
As hushed we stand,, a breeze perchance maj 

creep. 
And old, sweet leaf sounds reach the inner world, 
Where memory coils — and lo ! at once unfu:le<l, 
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight 
Spreads clear ; while, gushing from their long- 
sealed urn, 
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting pray- 
ers return. 
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light. 



THE SAME. 

And ye are strong to shelter ! — all meek thing's, 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, 
And nun-like violets, by the Avind betrayed. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tints hath 

played 
With his first primrose wreath ; there love hath 

sought 
A veiling gloom for his unuttered thought , 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and ofttimes there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
A native temple, solemn, hushed, and dim ; 
For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath stih 
Confessed a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless 

hymn. 



ON READING PAUL AND VJRGmiA 
IN CHILDHOOD. 

GENTLK story of the Indian isle ! 

1 loved thee in my lonely childhood well 

On the sea shore, when day's last, purple BToilt 
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell 
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell 
Unto thine ocean pictures. 'Midst thy palms 
And strange bright birds my fancy joyed lo 

dwell. 
And watch the southern cross through midnight 

calms. 
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I blessed 
Thy vision of sweet love — kind, trustful, tnie. 



A2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Lighting the ditron groves, a heavenly guest, 
With such pure smiles as paradise once knew. 
Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's 

power 
To reach with blight that holiest Eden flower. 



A ri: OUGHT AT SUNSET. 

Smx that last look is solemn ! though thy 

rays, 
O sun ! to-morrow will give back, we know. 
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow 
Of clo\ids that mantle thy decline, our gaze 
Tracks thee with love half fearful ; and in days 
When earth too much adored thee, what a sweU 
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays. 
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, 
sun of Greece ! O glorious, festal sun ! 
Lost, lost ! — for them thy golden hours were 

done. 
And darkness lay before them ! Happier far 
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchained. 
Not thus for thy last parting unsustained — 
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star. 



BIAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. 

Calm scenes of patriarch life ! how long a power 
Your imworn pastoral images retain 
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour 
Drank their pure freshness deep ! The camels' 

train 
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain — 
The tent, the palm tree, the reposing flock, 
The gleaming fount,.the shadow of the rock — 
O, by how subtile, yet how strong a chain. 
And in the influence of its touch how blessed, 
Ais these things linked, in many a thoughtful 

breast, 
Fc household memories, for all change endeared ! 
— The matin bird, the ripple of a stream 
Beside our native porch, the hearthlight's gleam, 
The voices, earliest by the soul revered ! 



ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. 

What secret current of man's nature turns 
'Into the golden East with ceaseless flow ? 



Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain bums, 
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow ; 
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and 

slow, 
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, 
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know 
Where passed the shepherd fathers of mankind. 
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from Sir 
Still points to \A-here our alienated home 
Lay in bright peace ? O thou true Eastern 3tar ! 
Savior ! atoning Lord ! where'er we roam, 
Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain " 
Their hope the fair lost birthright to regain ! 



TO AN AGED FRIEXD.» 

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, 
Servant of God ! — thy day is almost done ; 
The charm now lingering in thy look and woi i 
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun — 
That which the spirit of decay hath won 
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sens» 
Of life immortal — progress but begun — 
Pervade thy mien \yith such clear eloquence, 
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy de- 

ciine ; 
And the loved flowers which round thee smile 

farewell 
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell. 
By thy pure spirit touched with light divine : 
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, 
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven 



A HAPPY HOUR. 

O, WHAT a joy to feel that, in ir.y breast, 
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay 
Still pure, though heavii-j and long repressed 
By early-blighted leavts, which o'er their way 
Dark summer storms nud heaped. But ^ee. 

glad play 
Once more was given them : to the sunshi'4.''» 

glow. 



1 The sonnet "To an aged Friend," first publ}9hed ii 
Mrs. Hemans's Poctica'. Rrmains, was addressed to Dr. Per 
ceval of Dublin. T'.jo ;^onnet " T.. tlie Datura Arbor^t," ii 
the same volume wa!= written aftjr seeing a ■superb ppeci 
men of that striking pknt in Dr. Perceval's beautifui greo» 
house at Anncfield. 

Dr. Perceval died 3d March, Va^ , 6q:.dily respected fe 
his talents and virtues. 



KECOEDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



68^ 



A.iii the sweet wood song's penetrating flow, 
A.nd to the wandering primrose breath of May, 
A.nd the rich hawthorn odors, forth they sprung. 
0, not less freshly bright, that now a thought 
Of spiritual presence o'er them hung, 
And of immortal life ! a germ, unwrought 
In childhood's soul to power — now strong, 

serene. 
And full of love and light, coloring the whole 

blessed scene. 



FOLIAGE. 

CoMr forth, and let us through our hearts receive 
llie joy of verdure ! See ! the honeyed lime 
(Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild 

flowers weave 
rhick tapestry, and woodbine tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. 
The rich deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang' heavy with the fulness of their prime ; 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each 

gale 
That sweeps the boughs : the chestnut flowers 

are past, 
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 
From every hedge. O, never may we lose, 
Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest na- 
ture's hues ! 2d June. 



A PRAYER. 

Father in heaven ! from whom the simplest 

flower. 
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, 
Draws not sweet odor or young life alone, 
But the deep virtue of an inborn power. 
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour 
With thoughts of thee - • to strengthen, to infuse 
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues 
That speak thy presence ! O, with such a dower 
Grace thou my song ! — the precious gift bestow 
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine. 
To wake one tear of purifying flow, 
To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine ; 
So shall the life breathed through the lowly 

strain 
^e as the meek wild flowers — if transient, yet 

not vain. 



PRAYER CONTINUED. 

" What in me is dark. 
Illumine s what is low, raise and support.'' ~MiLlD». 

Fak are the wings of intellect astray 
That strive not. Father ! lo thy heavenly seat ; 
They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beal 
Still on their plumes. O Source of mental da} 
Chase from before my spirit's track the array 
Of mists and shadows, raised by eartlily care. 
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air. 
And veil the opening of the starry way 
"Which brightens on to thee ! O, guide thou 

right 
My thought's weak pinion ; clear my inward 

sight, 
The eternal springs of beauty to discern, 
Welling beside thy throne ; unseal mine ear, 
Nature's true oracles in joy to hear ; 
Keep my. soul wakeful still to listen and to leau 



MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. 

Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost — 
A brightness from our nature passed aAvay ! 
Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast 
Would turn to where their Father's mansion 

lay; 
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decaj 
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, 
Revealing dimly, with gray moss o'ergroAvn, 
The faint, worn impress of iis glory's day. 
Can trace their once-free heritage, though 

dreams. 
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams 
Flash o'er their souls. But One, O, One alone, 
For us the ruined fabric may rebuild, 
And bid the wilderness again be filled 
With Eden flowers — One mighty to atone ! 

2Ilh June I 



RECORDS OF THE AUTIBIN OF 
1834. 

THE RETURN TO POEIRY. 

OxcE more the eternal melodies from fai 

Woo me like songs of home ; once more dis- 



1 For this corrected chronolojfy of these sonnets, we an 
i indebted to the Rev. R. I". Graves, Bowiiess ; as also fo, 
1 Sonne improved readings, and tJie MS of" A Happy Hour '' 



.84 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



rhrough fitfil. clouds, the pure majestic star 
Above tl e poet's world serenely burning, 
Thither my soul, fresh winged by love, is 

turning, 
As o'er the waves the wood bird seeks her nest. 
For those green heights of dewy stillness 

yearning, 
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's 

unrest. 
Now be the Spirit of Heaven's truth my guide 
Through the bright land ! — that no brief glad- 
ness, found 
In passing bloom, rich odor, or sweet sound, 
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : 
Their true, high quest — to seek, if ne'er to gain. 
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 

9th September. 



TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING 
HIS '« PRIGIONE." 

There are who climb the mountain's heathery 

side, 
Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge 
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested 

surge. 
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride 
Over the green savamias, gleaming wide 
By some vast lake ; yet thus, on foaming sea, 
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free 
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified 
By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark 

cell 
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, 
Filling the dedicated solitude 
With God j and where his Spirit deigns to dwell, 

1 In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs. Hemans thus re- 
marks in a letter to a friend : " I wrote them only a few 
days ago, (ahnost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, 
after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that de- 
lightful book of Pellico's,* which I borrowed in consequence 
ui what you had told me of it. I know not when I have 
read any tiling which has so deeply impressed me : the grad- 
nal brightening of heart and soul into ' the perfect day ' of 
Cbristian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I 
Uiink, one of the most touching, as well as instructing, pic- 
fares ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene be- 
tween him and Oroboni, in which they nmtiially engage to 
ihrink not from the avowal of their faith, should they ever 
return into the world ! But I could say so much on this 
lubject, which has (piite taken hold of my thoughts, that it 
ipould lead nie to fill up my whole letter." 
In audtlicr letter she spoke further of this book, as a 
work with which I have been both impressed and de- 

• " Le mie Prigionu" 



Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie 
There throned in peace divine is liberty ! 



TO THE SAJ^IE, RELEASED.' 

How flows thy being now ? — like some glad 

hymn, 
One strain of solemn rapture r — doth thine ejl 
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim 
O'er the crowned Alps, that, 'midst the uppei 

sky. 
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy ? 
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound 
Unto these dear, parental faces bound, 
Which, Avith their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, 
Haunting thy prison dreams ? Where'er thou 

art, 
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart ! 
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, 
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent 
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent, 
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God ! 



ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLK* 

'TwAS a bright moment of my life when first, 
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flow- 
ing ! 
That temple chamber of thy glory burst 
On my glad sight ! Thy pebbly couch lay 

glowing 
With deep mosaic hues ; and, richly throwing 
O'er thy cliff walls a tinge of autumn's vest, 

lighted, and one which I strongly recommend you to pro- 
cure. It is the Prigioni of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished 
young Italian poet, who incurred the suspiciors of the Aus- 
trian government, and was condemned to the penally < f the 
careere duro during ten years, of which this most intert^sting 
work contains the narrative. It is deeply afTecting, froio 
the heart-springing eloquence with which iie details his ■;» 
ried sufferings. What forms, however, the great charm o* 
the work, is the gradual and almost unconsciously revealed 
exaltation of the sutTerer's character, spiritualized thro^2^ 
sufl!ering, into the purest Christian excellence. It is beauti- 
ful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to mankind 
brought out more and more into shining light from thi 
depth of the dungeon gloom ; and all this crowned at last 
by the release of the noble, all-forgiving captive, and his res- 
toration to his aged father and mother, whose venerable 
faces seem perpetually to have haunted the solitude of hi« 
cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian, an<< 
will, I am sure, he out to afford you lasting delight." 
2 A beautiful valley in the county of Wicslow. 



KECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



6BI 



High bloomed the heath flowers, and the wild 

wood's crest 
Was touched with gold. Flow ever thus, 

bestowing 
Gifts of delight, sweet stream ! on all who move 
Gently along thy shores ; and O, if love — 
True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught — 
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to 

thee, 
Thtn full of kindness let thy music be, 
Binging repose to every troubled thought ! 



ON THE DATURA ARBOREA. 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie, 
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's 

bell, 
Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase-like 

swell, 
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight filled from 

high, 
And in their monumental purity 
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw 
Visions linked strangely with that silent awe 
Which broods o'er sculptuie's works. A meet 

ally 
For those heroic forms, the simply grand 
Art thou : and worthy, carved by plastic hand, 
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine 
In spotless marble ; honoring one whose strain 
Soared, upon wings of thought that knew no 

stain. 
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine. 



ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH, 

WEITTE>r BY HIMSELF. 

"Stop, Christian passer-by I stop, child of God I 
And read with gentle breast : Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. 
O, lift one thought in prayer for. S T. C. 1 
That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath, 
Found death in life, may here find life in death; 
Mercy, for praise ; to be forgiven, for fame ; 
He asked and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same." 

Bpirit ! so oft in radiant freedom soaring 
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined. 
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind. 
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring ; 
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, 
.Vs, with the floating sweetness of their sishs. 



Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring 
A while that freshness left in paradise ; 
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal 
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul 
From wealth of thine bequeathed ? O strong 

and high. 
And sceptred intellect ! thy goal confessed 
Was the Redeemer's cross — thy last bequest 
One lesson breathing thence profound humility ! 



DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE. 

That float before my soul, the fair designs 
Which I would body forth to life and power. 
Like clouds, that with their waving hues and 

lines 
Portray majestic buildings — dome and tower. 
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the 

shower 
Points to th' unchanging stars ; and high arcadf 
Far sweeping to some glorious altar, made 
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour 
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'er- 

wrought, 
I sink. O friend ! linked with each high 

thought ! 
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain 
All I may grasp ; until thou seest fulfilled. 
While time and strength allow, my hope to 

build. 
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane ! 

18tli October. 



HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH 
NATURE. 

If e'er again my spirit be allowed 
Converse w'ith Nature in her chambers deep, 
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling clouo^ 
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap 
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep 
From caves of mystery ; if I roam once moro 
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar 
And voiccful oaks respond ; may I not reap 
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, 
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hoUi 
From such communion ? Yes ! I then shali 

know 
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thougni 
Their long, still work of preparation wrought 
For that more perfect sense of God levealec 

below. 



dS6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

Oft in still night dreams a departed face 
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye, 
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, 
Bui -sdl the tender pity that may lie 
Or. the clear brow of immortality, 
rjaim, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien ; 
Th' unshadowed moonlight of some far-off sky 
Around it floats transparently serene 
Xs a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep ! 
The spells are mighty in thy regions deep, 
Which glorify with reconciling breath, 
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine 
Beauty's high truth ; and how much more 

divine 
Thy power when linked, in this, with thy stern 

brother, Death ! 



THE POETRY OP THE PSALMS. 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rushed to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him as a mantle cast. 
And cherubim to waft his flying seat. 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, 
With trumpet voice thy spirit called aloud. 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat. 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone. 
The flasliing torrents, or the ocean's roll, 
lehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire, 
Natures vast realms forever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRA- 
TION. 



' Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele, 
Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto." 



My so'dl vras mantled with dark shadows, bom 
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ; 

Us phantoms hung around the star of morn, 
A cloud- like, weeping train : 

Dirough the long day they dimmed the autumn 
gold 

Qc %U th< glistening leaves, and wildly rolled, 



When the last farewell flush of light wtx 
glowing 

Across the sunset sky, 
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 

One melancholy dye. 

And when the solemn night 
Came rushing with her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unkccwn. 
Then with each fitful blast 
Prophetic murmurs passed. 
Wakening or answering some deep sibvl tone 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind harp 
flies. 

" Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strive 

no more — 
Faint spirit ! strive no more : for thee too strong 

Are outward ill and wrong. 
And inward wasting fires ! Thou canst not soaj 

Free on a starry way. 

Beyond their blighting sway. 
At heaven's high gate serenely to adore ! 
How shouldst thou hope earth's fetters to un- 
bind ? 
O passionate, yet weak ! O trembler to the wiiid i 

** Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe — 
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh. 
From the reeds hollow shaken, 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague, wild symphony. 
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place 
In human hearts ; their sweetness leaves nc 
trace — 
Born only so to die ! 

••Never shall aught but perfume, faint and 
vain, 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, 
From thy bruised life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into tlic blessed wreath 
Of household charities no longer bound. 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 

•• So fade, fade on ! Thy gift of love shall cling 
A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain — 
A silent, fruitless, yet undj-ing thing, 

All sensitive to pain ! 
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 



Qiy, 



Foi.'i, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued 
In cold and unrepining quietude ! " 

Then my soul yielded : spells of numbing breath 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of dea:h — 
Its powers, like leaves before the night rain, 
closing ; 
And, as by conflict of wild sea waves tossed 
On tlie chill bosom of some desert coast, 
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 

When silently it seemed 

As if a soft mist gleamed 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curliKg, 

To many a shape and l ■.•» 

Of visioned beauty grew, 
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. 
0, the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by 
With dreamy motion ! Silvery seas were there. 
Lit by large d^^zzlhf^, stars, and arched by skies 
Of southern t; '.'night's most transparent 
dyes ; 
A n J gemmed w'th many an island, wildly fair, 
Which floated j^ast me into orient day. 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumined way, 
rUI its hi';jh groves of wondrous flowering trees 

Colored the silvery seas. 

\rd then a glorious mountain chain uprose, 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows, 

All steeped in golden light ! 
While as it passed, those regal peaks unveiling, 
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings. 
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing. 
From lyres that o.vjvered through ten thou- 
sand strings — 
Or as if waters, fort^j to music leaping 

From many a cavo. the Alpine Echo's hall. 
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping. 
Linked in majyscic anthems ! — while through 
all 
That biUowy swell and fall. 
Voices, like rinp^ing crystal, filled the air 
With inarticulate melody, that stirred 
My b*jirg'3 core ; then, moulding into word 
r\eh piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear 
In that great choral strain my trembling part, 
'Jf tones by love and faith struck from a human 
heart. 

Return no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
lilath swi^Ued to power ; a clear, ur.wavering light i 



Mounts through the battling clouds that ^oiiDd 
mo roll ; 
And to a new control 
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones^ 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
The accoi-dant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound — 
One grand Creation Hymn, 
Whose notes the seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music winged an J 
crowned. 

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though fain ? Shall not my spirit's fii^ 
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end .-* 

Shall not my earthly love, all purified, 
Shine forth a heavenward guide, 

An angel of bright power — and strongly beai 

My being upward into holier air. 

Where fiery passion clouds have no abode. 
And the sky's temple arch o'erflows with Gor" 

The radiant hope new bom 

Expands like rising morn 
In my life's life : and as a ripening rose 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, hour by hour, on gome pure stream ; 

So from that hope are spreading 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding 
Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me ! — once enjoyed 

Father of spirits ! let them not depart — 

lieaving the chilled earth, without form and void 

Darkened by mine own heart ! 
Lift, aid, sustain me ! Thou, by whom alone 
All lovely gifts and pure 
In the soul's grasp endure ; 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea forevermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore - 
O, consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, 
In a full heart of music ! Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains waft tkj 

praise. 
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters 

fiU, 
And make their quivering, leafy dimness thriL 
To the rich breeze of song ! O, let me wake 
The deep religion, which hath dwelt fron 
yore 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, 
And wildest river shore ! 



688 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And let me summon all the voices dwelling 
Where eagles build, and caverned rills are well- 
ing, 
Ajid where the cata ict's organ peal is swelling, 
In that one spuit gathered to adore ! 

Forgive, O Father ! if presumptuous thought 

Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 
T.-et not tny child all vainly have been taught 

3y weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 
Of sad confession ! Lowly be my heart, 

And on its penitential altar spread 
The offerings w'orthless, till thy grace impart 

The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can 
sned 
Life, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 
Fierce my whole being, 'wildered else and dark ! 

Thine are all holy things — O, mak. me thine ! 
So shall I, too, be pure — a living shrine 
Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, 

Strong and divinely free. 
Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight. 
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing. 
Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship 

spring, 
Immortally endowed for liberty and light. 



THE HUGUENOT'S FAKEWELL. 

I STAND upon the threshold stone 

Of mine ancestral hall ; 
I hear my native river moan ; 

I see the night o'er my old forests fall. 

1 look round on the darkening vale 

That saw my childhood's plays ; 
The low wind in its rising wail 

Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. 

But I must rule my swelling breast : 

A jign is in the sky ! 
Blight o'er yon gray rock's eagle nest 

Shines forth a warning star — it bids me fly. 

My father's sword is in my hand. 

His deep voice haunts mine ear ; 
He tells me of the noble band 

Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. 

H.e bids their offspring guard from stain 
Their pure and lofty faith ; 



And yield up all things, to maintain 

The cause for which they girt themselves to 
death. 

And I obey. I leave their toweia 

Unto the stranger's tread. 
Unto the creeping glass and flowers, 

Unto the fading pictures of the dead. 

I leave their shields to slow decay, 

Their banners to the dust : 
I go, and only bear away 

Their old majestic name — a solemn trust 1 

I go up to the ancient hills, 

Where chains mav never be. 
Where leap in joy the torrent riDs, 

Where man may worship God, alone and fim 

There shall an altar and a camp 

Impregnably ai'ise ; 
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp. 

To shine, unwavering, through the open skiee. 

And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard, 

And fearless prayer ascend ; 
While, thrilling to God's holy word, 

The mountain pines in adoration bend. 

And there the burning heart no more 

Its deep thought shall suppress, 
But the long-buried truth shall pour 

Free currents thence, amidst the wilderreas. 

Then fare thee well, my mother's bower ! 

Farewell, my father's hearth ! — 
Perish my home ! where lawless power 

Hath rent the tie of love to native earvw. 

Perish ! let deathlike silence fall 

Upon the lone abode ; 
Spread fast, dark ivy ! spread thy pall ; 

I go up to the mountains with my God. 



ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.^ 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean water*, 
Restless as they with their many-flasliing surges. 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 



1 The original title given to this poem was The Lamert 
of Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on lh« 
suggestion of a friend. It was written in November, 1834 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



68ft 



I pine for thee through all the joyless day — 

Through the long night I pine : the golden sun 

Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring 

Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved ? 

Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, 

By the old temple on the breezy cliff, 

These hands have heaped the watchfire, till it 

streamed 
Red o'er the shining columns — darkly red 
Along the crested billows ! — but in vain ; 
Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles — 
Yet thou wert faithful ever. O, the deep 
Hath shut above thy head — that graceful head ; 
The seaweed mingles with thy clustering locks ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved I 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

Where art thou ? where ? Had I but lingering 

pressed 
On thy cold lips the last long kiss, but smoothed 
The parting ringlets of thy shining hair 
With love's fond touch, my heart's cry had been 

stiUed 
Into a voiceless grief : I woiild have strewed 
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods — 
White violets, and the mournful hyacinth. 
And frail anemone — thy marble brow, 
In slumber beautiful ! I would have heaped 
Sweet boughs and precious odors on thy pyre, 
And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, 
And many a garland of the pallid rose : 
But thou liest far away ! No funeral chant, 
Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine : 
No pyre — save, haply, some long-b\iried wreck ; 
Thou that wert fairest — thou that wert most 

loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, 
And speak to me ! E'en though thy voice be 

cnanged. 
My heart would know it still. O, speak to me ! 
And say if yet, in some dark, far-off" world, 
Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, 
O yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, 
We two shall meet again ! O, I would quit 
The day rejoicingly — the rosy light — 
AH the rich flowers and fountains musical, 
And sweet, familiar melodies of earth. 
87 



To dwell with thee below ! Thou answerest not 1 
The powers whom I have called upon are mute 
The voices buried in old whispery caves. 
And by lone river sources, and amidst 
The gloom and mystery of dark prophet oaks. 
The Avood gods' haunt — they give me no rei)ly ' 
All silent — heaven and earth ! Forevermore 
From the deserted mountains thou art gone - 
Forever from the melancholy groves, 
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound ! 
And I — I pine through all the joyous day. 
Through the long night I pine — as fondly pinei 
The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life 
To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear'st ma 

not ! 
The heavens are pitiless of human tears : 
The deep-sea darkness is about thy head ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges. 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one I 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 

INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 

O Thought ! O Memory ! gems forever heaping 
High in the illumined chambers of the mind — 
And thou, divine Imagination ! keeping 
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts en- 
shrined ; 
How in one moment rent and disintwined, 
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall, 
Your glorious combinations ! broken all, 
As the sand pillars by the desert's wind 
Scattered to whirling dust ! O, soon uncrowned I 
Well may your parting swift, your strange return. 
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound. 
Guiding its chastened vision to discern 
How by meek Faith heaven's portals must ba 



Ere it ca'.i hoM your gifts inalienably fast. 



SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT. 

Thou art like Night, O Sickness ! deeply stillmg 
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound. 
And the dim quiet of my chamber filhng 
With low, sweet voices by Life's tumult drowned- 



eye 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ITiou art like awful Night ! thou gatherest 

round 
The things that are unseen — though close they 

lie; 
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, 
Giv'st their dread presence to our mental eye. 
riiou art like storry, spiritual Night ! 
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, 
And revelations, which the common light 
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray 
All outward life. Be welcome, then, thy rod, 
before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to 

God. 



ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE 
ANGEL OE DEATH.» 

Well might thine awful image thus arise 
With that high calm upon thy regal brow, 
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, 
Unto the glorious artist ! Who but thou 
The flesting forms of beauty can endow 
For him with permanency ? who make those 

gleams 
Of brighter life, that color his lone dreams. 
Immortal things ! Let others trembling bow, 
Angel of Death ! before thee ; not to those 
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose 
Art thou a fearful shape ! And O, for me, 
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, 
Did not the cords of strong affection twine 
So fast aro\md my soul, it cannot spring to thee ! 



REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. 

Nature ! thou didst rear me for thine own, 
With thy free singing birds and mountain brooks. 
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted 

nooks 
With fairy fantasies and wood dreams lone ; 
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone 
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees anl 

waves. 
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, 



» This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out 
of Mrs. Jameson's Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in 
a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, 
near Dresden: "Afterwards he placed upon his easel a 
wondrous face, which made me shrink back — not with ter- 
ror, for it was perfectly beautiful — but with awe, for it was 
■nspeakably fearful : the bair streamed back from the pale 



And where bright mosses wove thee a rich 

throne 
'Midst the green hUls r and now that, far 

estranged 
From all sweet sounds and odors of thy breath, 
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged 
So glows the love of thee, that not for death 
Seems that pure passion's fervor — but ordained 
To meet on brighter shores thy iAa)fi»ty \in- 

stained. 



FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. 

Whither, O, whither wilt thou wing thy tv} \ 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight ? 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array, 
My spirit ! when thy prison house of clay, 
After long strife, is rent ? Fond, fruitless quest . 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, 
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play, 
And through their parting leaves, by fits re- 
vealed, 
A glimpse of summer sky ; nor knows the field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. 
Thou art that bird I — of what beyond thee hei 
Far in the untracked, immeasurable skies, 
Knowing but this — that thou shalt find thy 
Guide ! 



FLOWERS. 

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms ! again 
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 
For not alone ye bring a joyous train 
Of summer thoughts attendant on your bloom- 
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, 
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells. 
Of stars that look down on your folded bells 
Through dewy loaves, of many a wild perfume 
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove 
Like sudden music : more than this ye bring - 
Far more : ye whisper of the aU-fostering love 
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove- 
like wing 



brow — the orbs of sight appeared at fii»t two dark hollonr, 
unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull ; but when I 
drew nearer, and looked attentively, two lovely li? ing eye« 
looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if 
from the bottom of an abyss. Th<j n»oif'h was divinelj 
sweet, but sad, and the softest repo'ie rert»d on every fe» 
tare. This, he told me, was the Anou. *i Dsath.*' 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



891 



Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fevered breath, 
Whether the couoh be that of life or death. 



RECOVERY. 

Back, then, once more to breast the waves of life, 
To battle on against the unceasing spray, 
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife, 
And rise to strife again ; yet on my way, 
O, linger still, thou light of better day ! 
Born in the hours of lonehness ; and you. 
Ye childlike thoughts ! the holy and the true — 
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, 
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn 
Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new bom, 
Now leave me not ! but as, profoundly pure, 
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake 
Unchanged, e'en thus with me your joiimey 

take, 
Wafting sweet airs ol heaven through this low 

world ob«cur». 



SABBATH SONNET. 

COMPOSED BT MRS. HEMANS A FEW DATS BBVORl HIK DKATB. 
AND DEDICATED TO HEB BBOTHKB. 

How many blessfed groups this hour are bending, 
Through England's primrose meadow paths, 

their way 
Towards spire and tower, 'addJst shadowy elms 

ascending. 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed 

day! 
The halls from old heroic ages gray 
Pour their fair children fo.th ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds^ 

play, 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow. 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled 
My chastened heart, and aU its throbbings stille J 
To o"e deep calin of lowlieet thankfulness ! 

aetfa Avril. 1W*( 



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